Calarion's confrontation with Mortharor was to be the end of a large stage
in the war.
The High Elves had, thus far, been relentlessly driven back and defeated
repeatedly by their dark cousins. Now the High Elves were all but
conquered. The great port-city of Lothern had been saved by the heroic
actions of Melenar and the Seaguard, but already the Witch-King Malekith
prepared additional armies for the attack.
But they were not assigned. For now the Witch-King was nervous. The Two-
Faced Man, prophesied to him so long ago, had not been found. And the
Dreaded One knew that his arrival must be imminent. And also, despite the
passage of several months since the lightning raid on Avelorn and the
destruction of the Evercourt, the assassin Vuthil and his team had not
contacted him yet with any news about the death of the Everqueen And so,
despite total success in the war, Malekith could sense that the victory
would slide out of his grasp unless he located either of these people.
Meanwhile, the war raged on in various parts of Lothern. The forces of
Ulthuan were mustering in northern Saphery, preparing for a final offensive
against the invaders that would decide the ultimate fate of Ulthuan.
Already, the surviving members of Alarielle's Maiden Guard and Prince
Ikarus' Felix Legion were there, and many other bands were making their way
there for the great muster.
The site of the muster was an isolated field of absolutely no significance
whatsoever, but was a name that would echo forever in the annals of
history.
The place was called Finuval Plain.
Calarion shivered. By Asuryan it was cold! The white wind snapped past him and through his soldiers. It tore his fur-lined cloak from his grip and sent it flying out behind him, leaving him colder still, until he managed to snag it and wrap it back around him again. By his side, the mage Kelnenimros shook his head in disgust. "Why couldn't we just leave the dark elves up here to freeze?" Calarion said, "As far as I care, they can freeze here or in Morai-Heg's halls. The temperature can't be too different!" Kelnenimros snorted. "As a matter of fact, I think it would be warmer there." "Don't joke about it. We both know I'll probably be burning half these men here after the battle." Kelnenimros nodded. "Are the columns in place?" Kelnenimros performed a quick chant under his breath, and squinted slightly, before answering. "They are." "What about the scouts?" The Seaguard mage moved his head, so he was looking in the direction of the three scouts. His brow furrowed. "I cannot sense them." They both knew what that meant. Calarion said it. "Dead, then." "Give the sign to your friend in the column. The druchii scum shall be upon us shortly." Kelnenimros snapped his fingers. "Done." "Good. Now, we wait." The column continued its march. And what a small force it must appear to the watching Druchii, what a tempting target for Mortharor the Black! Calarion chuckled, as he cast his eye over the two hundred elves he had with him. No cavalry - the snows made horses impractical - but elven spearmen and archers, who had been with him and his father since the beginning, since Dagorannon. And his personal guards, the siltholrim, eager to free their lost captain, walking proudly around Calarion and Kelnenimros. They had been there before Dagorannon, since the first encounter with the druchii scouting band. Calarion was proud of his men. And he knew how such a force must seem to Mortharor (his lip curled at the very thought of the hated name). A tempting morsel, a prize that would be oh-so-easy to attack and destroy, and deliver his hated enemy to him at last. And the deaths of the three forward scouts - brave heroes all, who had known exactly what their mission was and of the fact of death - he knew that Mortharor had been tempted too much, would come like the moth to this inviting flame. "Bows readied? Spears?' he said quietly, glancing around the tiny force. The elves nodded. Despite the appearance of a column on march, the elves would be able to draw their weapons very fast. A good thing, considering the likely warning they would achieve before the assault. He himself had a longbow on his back, despite his preference of the longsword. Calarion got more warning than he would have expected. A pebble on an overhand, rolling. He fitted an arrow to his bow and cried out, "Attack!" And it was. Down the cliffs on both sides, dark elven attackers came howling, brandishing weapons already stained with their own blood as a prayer to Khaela-Mensha-Khaine, their dark god. Calarion released the string, and his red-fletched arrow was flung through the air, in a cloud of other arrows. He watched with satisfaction as the arrow buried itself into a chainmail-coated chest, turning it a sodden red. Then he set another arrow to the string, and released again. This time the shot struck one of the dark elves in the shoulder, sending him stumbling back. A good shot, and one that slowed him down long enough for one of the better archers to place an arrow directly in his forehead, killing him neatly. And now the dark elves were upon them. They came screaming down into the set spears of the defenders, splintering the shafts with the force of their impact. Many died with that, and now the defenders were forced to draw their finely-crafted blades and trust to the strength and swiftness of their arms as the fighting turned into a vicious close-quarters melee. Many died on both sides, and the snows turned a deep red with their blood. Calarion surveyed the horde. There were more of them than he'd though! He'd expected maybe five hundred, which he could have coped with easily, not the thousand there were. This would make things tricky. And all the more realistic. He brandished his sword. "Fall back! Fall back!" he cried, and the sound echoed between the cliff faces. Around him, the High Elves began slowly to disengage and jog backwards, towards what Mortharor must know was a defensible position, a rocky outcrop that meant the track was only fifty elves wide. A sensible position for an outnumbered army. He was counting on that. And sure enough, Mortharor seemed to have accepted the ruse. The dark elves split into three, with two smaller forces hurrying back up the cliffs so as to be able to attack Calarion's force from the rear. Perfect. Calarion turned and ran now, too. The distance seemed longer than it had when had walked it just before. Not a good thing, but Calarion dismissed it as simple stress. Then the sounds of battle, and Calarion cried out, "Stand!" For white-clad elves had emerged from the snow on either side of the dark elven force. The main force of Calarion's army charged into the confused flanks of the dark elves, crying out, "For Tarthalion! For Carus!" And now Calarion led the charge of the first force. "For Tarthalion!" he bellowed. "For Ulthuan!" And the High Elves barreled in. Attacked on three sides, the dark elves were thrown into a panic. How had this perfect ambush been set up? How was it that there were three times as many of the High Elves as they had thought? And how was it that this battle, a guaranteed success, was slipping away? A voice cried out, "Rout now and I'll have your guts for dessert!" Mortharor, in his distinctive black plate and skull-helmet, bellowed threats at the shaken dark elven line. "That runt thinks he's won! Begin your work, my friends, bring the cavalry," he said to a cadre of cloaked forms. And the sorceresses began to prepare their elaborate trick.
Kelnenimros saw them first, a vast host of dark elves mounted on their lizards. "Calarion!" he yelled, and gestured. Calarion shouted, "Cold Ones!" but was swept away by the fighting before he could say more. It was not good. The third flanking movement of the day, consisting of hundreds of riders on their ravenous beast-steeds, coming in behind the white-cloaked First and Second columns as they fought desperately the mortal foe. This could decide the battle. And there was just he, Kelnenimros, to find some way to counter them. Maybe some manner of fireball. The ice-loving lizards wouldn't like that at all. He opened himself up to the Winds of Magic, and began the rather simple incantation that would fling a fireball into the riders' midst. There was something wrong. Puzzled, Kelnenimros ceased the fireball. There was something unusual about the riders, something that smacked of.why, of magic. Of.magic! Of course! The solution was, as all solutions seem when they are found, simple. He grinned and began a different casting. A slightly harder one, but still well within his capabilities. He finished it within the space of seconds, and with a wide grin released it. The cold one riders disappeared. He turned back to the throng and searched for Calarion. "I've dealt with the cavalry," he said quickly. "Illusions." Calarion raised one eyebrow and his shield, blocking a dark elven blade. "Really?" Then he turned back to the fray. His sword flickered and the warrior before him was dropped to the ground, his chest cleaved in twain. "Mortharor! Face me!" he howled to the mass of warriors. He slashed again, taking out a dark elf's throat. "Mortharor!" His next blow sheared through an elf's torso. "Mortharor!" "You called?" a mocking voice said. Mortharor stood in front of Calarion, a vision of pure evil in the skull- helm, holding the twin-headed halberd lightly. "You have learnt much. I'm impressed. You even dispelled the cavalry." Calarion snarled, "He did that. All I'm going to do is kill you." He gestured to Kelnenimros as he cleft through another dark elf between him and his nemesis. Mortharor said, "He did?" A lightning flicker, and then one tip of his halberd was bathed in Kelnenimros' blood. "Think of that as my gift to you," Mortharor sneered, as he flicked Kelnenimros' blood on to the steaming corpse of the mage. Calarion simply screamed in rage and charged. His sword flew in at a rate that made all the combatants nearby stop to observe the titans clashing. The sound was one of a continuous scrape, metal upon metal. Neither spoke, all their concentration upon the deadly contest. Mortharor struck first, the blade of his halberd coming in for Calarion's throat. The same killing blow as he gave to Tarthalion. Calarion pulled back, and the blow left a red scratch and tore off the brooch that attached his cloak, sending it flying off. They strained for an age, flickering blows so quickly they could scarcely be seen. Calarion's blade, the ancient sword of his line, struck low, and then darted up high. It caught Mortharor on the skull faceplate, smashing it completely and sending it spinning into the snow. They paused briefly as Calarion looked into Mortharor's face for the first time. "So this is what evil looks like," Calarion hissed. Mortharor's face was not particularly attractive, nor hideous. It was made from a mass of harsh edges - his cheekbones, his jaw, his brow, his nose. But the most noticeable feature was the complete lack of any mortal qualities. It was bland and expressionless save for the pure malice that poured through and made onlookers shudder, even the dark elves. "I shall take your skull to replace it," the dark elven general promised, and he began the attack anew suddenly. Calarion's blade jerked up, taking the swift attack. And then they were back to their deadly sparring, each fuelled only by their irresistible anger. But Mortharor was winning. Blow after blow he flung, but all were parried. Even so, all drove the High Elf back, one step, one inch, at a time. Soon there would be nowhere for him to go. Calarion screamed in fury and his blows doubled in speed. His breath was labored. "Die, damn you!" he howled. But Mortharor was used to fighting angry warriors, and Calarion's blows did nothing. Then his backing up ended and Calarion felt rough rock and snow against the back of his beautiful golden armour. There was nowhere for him to go. Mortharor knew this. The halberd began a different game, one that kept Calarion penned in. And blind fury is a poor tool for one who wishes to parry. Calarion felt the sting of the halberd repeatedly, but fended off any attacks that would have killed him. It was then that sanity returned to Calarion. Too exhausted for even his rage to sustain him, he found himself there. Doomed, surely. He swung, taking an attack from that angle. Missed one from his right. He had lost his shield long before, and had the blade of Tathel Sapherion gripped firmly in both hands. But is the anger your tool, or are you a tool of your anger? The words of Arhaindir Moonhand, before he had left. And all too true. He was a tool of his anger. He had abandoned much of the training he had received. He knew better ways to fight than this. And another statement rose to his mind. 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? Anger was not the right way. Throughout his life, Calarion had never seen Tarthalion grow angry. Even when the war had seemed forgone, he had maintained a grim resolve and even. pity for the dark elves. Never hatred. By allowing himself to hate Mortharor, he had abandoned everything his father had stood for. The realization hit him like a blow from Mortharor's halberd. Tears came to Calarion's eyes. He'd failed, and would die here because of it. No. This was not over yet. He would win this, in his father's name, for Tarthalion. Mortharor's halberd came in, aimed for Calarion's throat. Calarion spun his sword so that the blade pointed downwards, and caught the blow. A quick flick, and Mortharor's attack was flung wide. Calarion took advantage, coming forward, blade flying with icy precision. He could still feel hatred, but now used it to his advantage, to keep him on his feet. He had a stronger tool now - the memory of his father. Mortharor's face showed puzzlement as the advance changed. He tried techniques gained over centuries of fighting, and all were caught by Calarion and exploited to the High Elf's advantage. Then Calarion feinted, and Mortharor brought his halberd out to parry. Calarion changed the path of his attack. It struck hard Har Ganeth steel, and with implacable force cleaved through the master-crafted halberd. The next blow sent Mortharor sprawling in his heavy black plate armour. Calarion bent down until he was looking directly at Mortharor's eyes. "For Tarthalion," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "For my father." Then he drove the blade in.
Calarion shivered. By Asuryan it was cold! The white wind snapped past him and through his soldiers. It tore his fur-lined cloak from his grip and sent it flying out behind him, leaving him colder still, until he managed to snag it and wrap it back around him again. By his side, the mage Kelnenimros shook his head in disgust. "Why couldn't we just leave the dark elves up here to freeze?" Calarion said, "As far as I care, they can freeze here or in Morai-Heg's halls. The temperature can't be too different!" Kelnenimros snorted. "As a matter of fact, I think it would be warmer there." "Don't joke about it. We both know I'll probably be burning half these men here after the battle." Kelnenimros nodded. "Are the columns in place?" Kelnenimros performed a quick chant under his breath, and squinted slightly, before answering. "They are." "What about the scouts?" The Seaguard mage moved his head, so he was looking in the direction of the three scouts. His brow furrowed. "I cannot sense them." They both knew what that meant. Calarion said it. "Dead, then." "Give the sign to your friend in the column. The druchii scum shall be upon us shortly." Kelnenimros snapped his fingers. "Done." "Good. Now, we wait." The column continued its march. And what a small force it must appear to the watching Druchii, what a tempting target for Mortharor the Black! Calarion chuckled, as he cast his eye over the two hundred elves he had with him. No cavalry - the snows made horses impractical - but elven spearmen and archers, who had been with him and his father since the beginning, since Dagorannon. And his personal guards, the siltholrim, eager to free their lost captain, walking proudly around Calarion and Kelnenimros. They had been there before Dagorannon, since the first encounter with the druchii scouting band. Calarion was proud of his men. And he knew how such a force must seem to Mortharor (his lip curled at the very thought of the hated name). A tempting morsel, a prize that would be oh-so-easy to attack and destroy, and deliver his hated enemy to him at last. And the deaths of the three forward scouts - brave heroes all, who had known exactly what their mission was and of the fact of death - he knew that Mortharor had been tempted too much, would come like the moth to this inviting flame. "Bows readied? Spears?' he said quietly, glancing around the tiny force. The elves nodded. Despite the appearance of a column on march, the elves would be able to draw their weapons very fast. A good thing, considering the likely warning they would achieve before the assault. He himself had a longbow on his back, despite his preference of the longsword. Calarion got more warning than he would have expected. A pebble on an overhand, rolling. He fitted an arrow to his bow and cried out, "Attack!" And it was. Down the cliffs on both sides, dark elven attackers came howling, brandishing weapons already stained with their own blood as a prayer to Khaela-Mensha-Khaine, their dark god. Calarion released the string, and his red-fletched arrow was flung through the air, in a cloud of other arrows. He watched with satisfaction as the arrow buried itself into a chainmail-coated chest, turning it a sodden red. Then he set another arrow to the string, and released again. This time the shot struck one of the dark elves in the shoulder, sending him stumbling back. A good shot, and one that slowed him down long enough for one of the better archers to place an arrow directly in his forehead, killing him neatly. And now the dark elves were upon them. They came screaming down into the set spears of the defenders, splintering the shafts with the force of their impact. Many died with that, and now the defenders were forced to draw their finely-crafted blades and trust to the strength and swiftness of their arms as the fighting turned into a vicious close-quarters melee. Many died on both sides, and the snows turned a deep red with their blood. Calarion surveyed the horde. There were more of them than he'd though! He'd expected maybe five hundred, which he could have coped with easily, not the thousand there were. This would make things tricky. And all the more realistic. He brandished his sword. "Fall back! Fall back!" he cried, and the sound echoed between the cliff faces. Around him, the High Elves began slowly to disengage and jog backwards, towards what Mortharor must know was a defensible position, a rocky outcrop that meant the track was only fifty elves wide. A sensible position for an outnumbered army. He was counting on that. And sure enough, Mortharor seemed to have accepted the ruse. The dark elves split into three, with two smaller forces hurrying back up the cliffs so as to be able to attack Calarion's force from the rear. Perfect. Calarion turned and ran now, too. The distance seemed longer than it had when had walked it just before. Not a good thing, but Calarion dismissed it as simple stress. Then the sounds of battle, and Calarion cried out, "Stand!" For white-clad elves had emerged from the snow on either side of the dark elven force. The main force of Calarion's army charged into the confused flanks of the dark elves, crying out, "For Tarthalion! For Carus!" And now Calarion led the charge of the first force. "For Tarthalion!" he bellowed. "For Ulthuan!" And the High Elves barreled in. Attacked on three sides, the dark elves were thrown into a panic. How had this perfect ambush been set up? How was it that there were three times as many of the High Elves as they had thought? And how was it that this battle, a guaranteed success, was slipping away? A voice cried out, "Rout now and I'll have your guts for dessert!" Mortharor, in his distinctive black plate and skull-helmet, bellowed threats at the shaken dark elven line. "That runt thinks he's won! Begin your work, my friends, bring the cavalry," he said to a cadre of cloaked forms. And the sorceresses began to prepare their elaborate trick.
Kelnenimros saw them first, a vast host of dark elves mounted on their lizards. "Calarion!" he yelled, and gestured. Calarion shouted, "Cold Ones!" but was swept away by the fighting before he could say more. It was not good. The third flanking movement of the day, consisting of hundreds of riders on their ravenous beast-steeds, coming in behind the white-cloaked First and Second columns as they fought desperately the mortal foe. This could decide the battle. And there was just he, Kelnenimros, to find some way to counter them. Maybe some manner of fireball. The ice-loving lizards wouldn't like that at all. He opened himself up to the Winds of Magic, and began the rather simple incantation that would fling a fireball into the riders' midst. There was something wrong. Puzzled, Kelnenimros ceased the fireball. There was something unusual about the riders, something that smacked of.why, of magic. Of.magic! Of course! The solution was, as all solutions seem when they are found, simple. He grinned and began a different casting. A slightly harder one, but still well within his capabilities. He finished it within the space of seconds, and with a wide grin released it. The cold one riders disappeared. He turned back to the throng and searched for Calarion. "I've dealt with the cavalry," he said quickly. "Illusions." Calarion raised one eyebrow and his shield, blocking a dark elven blade. "Really?" Then he turned back to the fray. His sword flickered and the warrior before him was dropped to the ground, his chest cleaved in twain. "Mortharor! Face me!" he howled to the mass of warriors. He slashed again, taking out a dark elf's throat. "Mortharor!" His next blow sheared through an elf's torso. "Mortharor!" "You called?" a mocking voice said. Mortharor stood in front of Calarion, a vision of pure evil in the skull- helm, holding the twin-headed halberd lightly. "You have learnt much. I'm impressed. You even dispelled the cavalry." Calarion snarled, "He did that. All I'm going to do is kill you." He gestured to Kelnenimros as he cleft through another dark elf between him and his nemesis. Mortharor said, "He did?" A lightning flicker, and then one tip of his halberd was bathed in Kelnenimros' blood. "Think of that as my gift to you," Mortharor sneered, as he flicked Kelnenimros' blood on to the steaming corpse of the mage. Calarion simply screamed in rage and charged. His sword flew in at a rate that made all the combatants nearby stop to observe the titans clashing. The sound was one of a continuous scrape, metal upon metal. Neither spoke, all their concentration upon the deadly contest. Mortharor struck first, the blade of his halberd coming in for Calarion's throat. The same killing blow as he gave to Tarthalion. Calarion pulled back, and the blow left a red scratch and tore off the brooch that attached his cloak, sending it flying off. They strained for an age, flickering blows so quickly they could scarcely be seen. Calarion's blade, the ancient sword of his line, struck low, and then darted up high. It caught Mortharor on the skull faceplate, smashing it completely and sending it spinning into the snow. They paused briefly as Calarion looked into Mortharor's face for the first time. "So this is what evil looks like," Calarion hissed. Mortharor's face was not particularly attractive, nor hideous. It was made from a mass of harsh edges - his cheekbones, his jaw, his brow, his nose. But the most noticeable feature was the complete lack of any mortal qualities. It was bland and expressionless save for the pure malice that poured through and made onlookers shudder, even the dark elves. "I shall take your skull to replace it," the dark elven general promised, and he began the attack anew suddenly. Calarion's blade jerked up, taking the swift attack. And then they were back to their deadly sparring, each fuelled only by their irresistible anger. But Mortharor was winning. Blow after blow he flung, but all were parried. Even so, all drove the High Elf back, one step, one inch, at a time. Soon there would be nowhere for him to go. Calarion screamed in fury and his blows doubled in speed. His breath was labored. "Die, damn you!" he howled. But Mortharor was used to fighting angry warriors, and Calarion's blows did nothing. Then his backing up ended and Calarion felt rough rock and snow against the back of his beautiful golden armour. There was nowhere for him to go. Mortharor knew this. The halberd began a different game, one that kept Calarion penned in. And blind fury is a poor tool for one who wishes to parry. Calarion felt the sting of the halberd repeatedly, but fended off any attacks that would have killed him. It was then that sanity returned to Calarion. Too exhausted for even his rage to sustain him, he found himself there. Doomed, surely. He swung, taking an attack from that angle. Missed one from his right. He had lost his shield long before, and had the blade of Tathel Sapherion gripped firmly in both hands. But is the anger your tool, or are you a tool of your anger? The words of Arhaindir Moonhand, before he had left. And all too true. He was a tool of his anger. He had abandoned much of the training he had received. He knew better ways to fight than this. And another statement rose to his mind. 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? Anger was not the right way. Throughout his life, Calarion had never seen Tarthalion grow angry. Even when the war had seemed forgone, he had maintained a grim resolve and even. pity for the dark elves. Never hatred. By allowing himself to hate Mortharor, he had abandoned everything his father had stood for. The realization hit him like a blow from Mortharor's halberd. Tears came to Calarion's eyes. He'd failed, and would die here because of it. No. This was not over yet. He would win this, in his father's name, for Tarthalion. Mortharor's halberd came in, aimed for Calarion's throat. Calarion spun his sword so that the blade pointed downwards, and caught the blow. A quick flick, and Mortharor's attack was flung wide. Calarion took advantage, coming forward, blade flying with icy precision. He could still feel hatred, but now used it to his advantage, to keep him on his feet. He had a stronger tool now - the memory of his father. Mortharor's face showed puzzlement as the advance changed. He tried techniques gained over centuries of fighting, and all were caught by Calarion and exploited to the High Elf's advantage. Then Calarion feinted, and Mortharor brought his halberd out to parry. Calarion changed the path of his attack. It struck hard Har Ganeth steel, and with implacable force cleaved through the master-crafted halberd. The next blow sent Mortharor sprawling in his heavy black plate armour. Calarion bent down until he was looking directly at Mortharor's eyes. "For Tarthalion," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "For my father." Then he drove the blade in.