Teclis breathed in, slowly.
He sat in the middle of his tent, undisturbed by the cries of the elves
preparing for their final stand, focusing his mind upon the weaves of
magic. So he did not see the small dark tent, did not see his brother's
corpse laid out in state, did not see the older elf Arathion, his father,
who sat next to him solemnly and motionlessly. He did not smell the candles
he had lit, nor did he feel their faint warmth upon his skin. His body sat
in Finuval Plains, but his mind was one with the elements of magic, pure
energy for those with the strength to grasp it.
Teclis knew he could channel vast quantities of the power. He also knew
that the amount he would use should snuff out the life of any mage, or
rather melt them where they stood.
His eyes snapped open. He knew what he had to do, but it was risky, it was
highly difficult and it was fickle. He would restore life to the body and
see if Tyrion's spirit, which lingered as the body had not been burnt,
would return.
His eyes opened. He breathed in, and then out again, deeply, with perfect
focus.
Arathion could see his son's eyes in the dim light. Normally a flat brown,
they now were incandescent, so that he had to look away or be blinded by
the brilliance of the energy that pulsed through his son's frail body.
Teclis rose and walked over to the corpse slowly, and laid one hand on the
chest. The hand pulsed and glowed, shearing through the dim light as it was
channeled from Teclis' body to Tyrion's.
The corpse's open eyes burst with a pure white light. His body crackled
with sorcery. But it did not move.
Teclis continued, placing his other hand on Tyrion's chest, now doubling
the pulse that burst through from the winds of magic to the corpse. Both
elves were transfigured now, turned into brilliant light. Arathion's eyes
clamped shut to ward off the energy, but it burst through his eyelids so he
turned his head.
Teclis was on fire. Liquid agony raged through his veins. Boiling ice
attacked his flesh. It was agony, and it was bliss, the sheer power that
coursed trough him. The war-crown seared his forehead, pulsing with energy.
Only its strength kept him alive now.
Tyrion's body did not move.
The sight broke Teclis' concentration. It was too much. He could not
continue. With a gasp he fell, and the light was extinguished.
Tyrion's body did not move.
Teclis waved on the edge of unconsciousness. His mind battled with his body
for supremacy as he tried to deny what had happened. He had failed!
Then he saw Tyrion jerk, and his chest began to rise and fall again.
Teclis' mind won; he forced himself up. And Tyrion opened his eyes, alive
again.
Teclis nearly collapsed in shock. Tyrion's gaze met his, and where the eyes
had been a match to his before, now the irises were turned a brilliant
white, a white to match the energy that had resurrected him.
Tyrion cried out in wonderment, a primal scream of joy, and Teclis' voice
joined him.
The dark elves slowly. A palpable tide of blackness, they came over the hills into the mountain plain, and the high elves looked upon their numbers and were dismayed. And they saw from a distance a banner which struck more fear still into their hearts, the skull and eight-headed arrow floating on a purple and black field, and recognized it for what it was - the personal banner of Malekith, the Dreaded One, the Witch-King. He was here in person, leading the army himself. He had performed his own muster, and now prepared to smash the high elves now and for all. Should they fall here, the last of Ulthaun's defenders would be dead, and his ultimate victory would be assured. But there was hope, too, for the defenders, as they saw the mighty heroes who rapidly began mustering their forces as the dim light became lighter and lighter as the sun approached. On the left flank, opposite those chaos allies which Malekith had brought on to the field, the proud horsemen of Ellyrian and the chariot-people of Tiranoc, led by their lord and Prince Thaindal, from one of the oldest lineages of Ulthuan. Their beautiful steeds stamped impatiently, echoing their masters' wish for the battle to commence. One the right flank fluttered the sword and sun that had been the emblem of the line of Tathel Sapherior since the time of Aenarion the Defender, now borne by Calarion. His name was spoken over the camp as the elf who had killed Darsil the Lord Assassin and Mortharor, the dark elven general, and all agreed that he was a worthy successor to his illustrious father and to his ancestors. With him stood Prince Ikarus of Caledor, Arhaindir Moonhand, and many more. And in the centre, the largest force, to take the brunt of the dark elven assault. But their champions were the greatest of all. The last of the handmaidens of the Everqueen, and with them their mistress, restored to them at last despite the odds. The weary mage Teclis, leaning on a beautifully-crafted new staff gifted to him by Alarielle, one that gave him the strength he lacked so that he would never need the herbal potions again. And riding amidst the forces, crying words of encouragement and of glory, shining like a beacon of Asuryan, like Aenarion the Defender come again, Tyrion. Covered in gifts from all quarters for his heroism, equipped with the finest weapons the high elves possessed. From his father, the runesword Sunfang, the ancestral sword, embued with the majesty of Asuryan; and the Dragon Armor, worn by great Aenarion himself, beautifully crafted in gold with techniques mortal hands could never again repeat. Hanging from his chest a pendant from Alarielle, heart shaped, that would protect his mind and remind him always of her love. And beneath his legs he could feel the powerful muscles of the most splendid gift of all, from Ethendir of Ellyrian, the finest horse alive. Sleek and pure white, Malhandir had a grace and intelligence no other horse possessed. Tyrion had never liked horses overly before, but Malhandir seemed more than a horse, a companion, a fellow warrior, sleek and mighty. And regiment after regiment of spearmen, of archers, of seaguard, of silver helms, of all the elven regiments, prepared for battle. They had hope on their side, but against the enemy hope would no longer be enough. And the dark elven tide advanced. Numberless amounts of the fallen cousins, and in their midst Malekith himself. The dark elves stopped their approach when they were all within Finuval Plain. By them, the bestial monsters and the human servants of chaos were still too. No word issued out as the two armies simply watched each other, preparing for the fray. The silence was broken by a lone horseman. He came from the dark elven lines and then stopped, half way between the two armies. With a single smooth movement he drew two straight swords from his back, and then stopped and eyed the high elves. "I am Urian Poisonblade!" he cried. "Greatest of the Assassins! Who will dare fight me?!" The high elves were still for a time, until a warrior's voice was heard. "I am Arhalien of Yvresse, druchii! I shall show you how real elves fight!" Arhalien came forward. He was clad in ithilmar armour, and bore a halberd. He had fought at Tor Yvresse, and then with Ikarus. He was a skilled and deadly veteran. He approached Poisonblade and rose his halberd in salute. Urian saluted. Urian moved first, lashing one sword low. Arhalien's halberd caught the sword, and then spun to the other side to catch the other sword blow. Urian's second sword tore through the wooden shaft of the weapon, and through into Arhalien's chest. A spray of blood, and the elf hero was dead. "Pitiful!" Urian taunted, flicking Arhalien's blood off his sword. "Truly pitiful. That is all you have?" There came a stirring from under the sword and sun banner, but it was drowned out by a more powerful voice. "Let us see how you fare against a White Lion!" The White Lions were a force of forest-dwelling scouts who came from the northern province of Chrace. They were reputed to be very strong, and this warrior hefted a massive double-headed axe with one hand. His name was Korhian Ironglaive, and he was the captain of the White Lions. There were few in Ulthuan who were his equal. Again Urian struck first, this time pivoting on the spot with his blades leading, a strategy that few could match. But Korhian did, parrying twice and then lashing out with deadly speed and force at the dark elf's legs in the split-second his back was turned. Urian stopped the corkscrew and vaulted lightly over the axe, landing in a roll that brought him back to his knees as Korhain began raining blows on him. Urian's twin blades struck in an 'x' shape, catching the axehead between them. And Urian stood up, somehow forcing up the axe. They disengaged violently and Urian's swords headed for Korhian's gut, but the wily elf hopped back so that the swords missed. A quick sweep of the axe drove both out wide, and then Korhain's axe was screaming in for Urian's throat. Urian ducked off to one side, and then sprang back the moment that the axe had passed him. Korhian realized now he was dangerously open, and began swinging his axe back to ward off the deadly swords. But Urian's leg snapped up and caught him square in the head. The force of the kick from the seemingly scrawny assassin sent Korhain staggering back, and it was all over. Urian's swords crossed so they were positioned over his opposite shoulders and then let swing. The blades met each other in the middle, at Korhian's neck, and then kept going. In a spray of gore, the head spun off, to land at the ground at the feet of the horrified high elven spearmen. Urian yawned. "So this is it?" he snarled. "Your best warriors die that quickly? You aren't elves at all; you're humans. Why, I could just walk up to your Everqueen now and kill her, and none of you would be able to stop me." And he began pacing slowly towards Alarielle, who stood at the front of the lines, proud and upright. The high elves did not move, paralyzed by fear in the same way a deer will before its life ends. Then a sword flashed. Urian spun, his own sword leading. Blood sprayed, and there was a howl. Urian clutched the gash on his arm, glaring at the elf whose blade was stained with his blood. "Touch her and I will kill you," Tyrion promised.
The dark elves slowly. A palpable tide of blackness, they came over the hills into the mountain plain, and the high elves looked upon their numbers and were dismayed. And they saw from a distance a banner which struck more fear still into their hearts, the skull and eight-headed arrow floating on a purple and black field, and recognized it for what it was - the personal banner of Malekith, the Dreaded One, the Witch-King. He was here in person, leading the army himself. He had performed his own muster, and now prepared to smash the high elves now and for all. Should they fall here, the last of Ulthaun's defenders would be dead, and his ultimate victory would be assured. But there was hope, too, for the defenders, as they saw the mighty heroes who rapidly began mustering their forces as the dim light became lighter and lighter as the sun approached. On the left flank, opposite those chaos allies which Malekith had brought on to the field, the proud horsemen of Ellyrian and the chariot-people of Tiranoc, led by their lord and Prince Thaindal, from one of the oldest lineages of Ulthuan. Their beautiful steeds stamped impatiently, echoing their masters' wish for the battle to commence. One the right flank fluttered the sword and sun that had been the emblem of the line of Tathel Sapherior since the time of Aenarion the Defender, now borne by Calarion. His name was spoken over the camp as the elf who had killed Darsil the Lord Assassin and Mortharor, the dark elven general, and all agreed that he was a worthy successor to his illustrious father and to his ancestors. With him stood Prince Ikarus of Caledor, Arhaindir Moonhand, and many more. And in the centre, the largest force, to take the brunt of the dark elven assault. But their champions were the greatest of all. The last of the handmaidens of the Everqueen, and with them their mistress, restored to them at last despite the odds. The weary mage Teclis, leaning on a beautifully-crafted new staff gifted to him by Alarielle, one that gave him the strength he lacked so that he would never need the herbal potions again. And riding amidst the forces, crying words of encouragement and of glory, shining like a beacon of Asuryan, like Aenarion the Defender come again, Tyrion. Covered in gifts from all quarters for his heroism, equipped with the finest weapons the high elves possessed. From his father, the runesword Sunfang, the ancestral sword, embued with the majesty of Asuryan; and the Dragon Armor, worn by great Aenarion himself, beautifully crafted in gold with techniques mortal hands could never again repeat. Hanging from his chest a pendant from Alarielle, heart shaped, that would protect his mind and remind him always of her love. And beneath his legs he could feel the powerful muscles of the most splendid gift of all, from Ethendir of Ellyrian, the finest horse alive. Sleek and pure white, Malhandir had a grace and intelligence no other horse possessed. Tyrion had never liked horses overly before, but Malhandir seemed more than a horse, a companion, a fellow warrior, sleek and mighty. And regiment after regiment of spearmen, of archers, of seaguard, of silver helms, of all the elven regiments, prepared for battle. They had hope on their side, but against the enemy hope would no longer be enough. And the dark elven tide advanced. Numberless amounts of the fallen cousins, and in their midst Malekith himself. The dark elves stopped their approach when they were all within Finuval Plain. By them, the bestial monsters and the human servants of chaos were still too. No word issued out as the two armies simply watched each other, preparing for the fray. The silence was broken by a lone horseman. He came from the dark elven lines and then stopped, half way between the two armies. With a single smooth movement he drew two straight swords from his back, and then stopped and eyed the high elves. "I am Urian Poisonblade!" he cried. "Greatest of the Assassins! Who will dare fight me?!" The high elves were still for a time, until a warrior's voice was heard. "I am Arhalien of Yvresse, druchii! I shall show you how real elves fight!" Arhalien came forward. He was clad in ithilmar armour, and bore a halberd. He had fought at Tor Yvresse, and then with Ikarus. He was a skilled and deadly veteran. He approached Poisonblade and rose his halberd in salute. Urian saluted. Urian moved first, lashing one sword low. Arhalien's halberd caught the sword, and then spun to the other side to catch the other sword blow. Urian's second sword tore through the wooden shaft of the weapon, and through into Arhalien's chest. A spray of blood, and the elf hero was dead. "Pitiful!" Urian taunted, flicking Arhalien's blood off his sword. "Truly pitiful. That is all you have?" There came a stirring from under the sword and sun banner, but it was drowned out by a more powerful voice. "Let us see how you fare against a White Lion!" The White Lions were a force of forest-dwelling scouts who came from the northern province of Chrace. They were reputed to be very strong, and this warrior hefted a massive double-headed axe with one hand. His name was Korhian Ironglaive, and he was the captain of the White Lions. There were few in Ulthuan who were his equal. Again Urian struck first, this time pivoting on the spot with his blades leading, a strategy that few could match. But Korhian did, parrying twice and then lashing out with deadly speed and force at the dark elf's legs in the split-second his back was turned. Urian stopped the corkscrew and vaulted lightly over the axe, landing in a roll that brought him back to his knees as Korhain began raining blows on him. Urian's twin blades struck in an 'x' shape, catching the axehead between them. And Urian stood up, somehow forcing up the axe. They disengaged violently and Urian's swords headed for Korhian's gut, but the wily elf hopped back so that the swords missed. A quick sweep of the axe drove both out wide, and then Korhain's axe was screaming in for Urian's throat. Urian ducked off to one side, and then sprang back the moment that the axe had passed him. Korhian realized now he was dangerously open, and began swinging his axe back to ward off the deadly swords. But Urian's leg snapped up and caught him square in the head. The force of the kick from the seemingly scrawny assassin sent Korhain staggering back, and it was all over. Urian's swords crossed so they were positioned over his opposite shoulders and then let swing. The blades met each other in the middle, at Korhian's neck, and then kept going. In a spray of gore, the head spun off, to land at the ground at the feet of the horrified high elven spearmen. Urian yawned. "So this is it?" he snarled. "Your best warriors die that quickly? You aren't elves at all; you're humans. Why, I could just walk up to your Everqueen now and kill her, and none of you would be able to stop me." And he began pacing slowly towards Alarielle, who stood at the front of the lines, proud and upright. The high elves did not move, paralyzed by fear in the same way a deer will before its life ends. Then a sword flashed. Urian spun, his own sword leading. Blood sprayed, and there was a howl. Urian clutched the gash on his arm, glaring at the elf whose blade was stained with his blood. "Touch her and I will kill you," Tyrion promised.