The brilliant golden beams of the sun began to light up the mountains as
Asuryan began his ascent into the heavens, heralding a new dawn, a new day.
The motionless armies of elves simply stood. The wind had dropped down now;
banners hung slack from their poles and the great griffins of the high
elves had perched down as their riders gave them time to rest before the
battle began.
The focus of every elf there was upon the two champions who now eyed each
other motionlessly. The ornate golden plate of Tyrion gleamed brilliantly,
and his runesword pulsed faintly with great power as he held it, point low,
in both hands. His white cape hung low. He did not move.
Opposite him, the Witch-King's champion Urian Poisonblade had taken up a
battle stance. The blood flowing from the gash in his arm had lessened - it
was a light wound, and of no real consequence. The black cloak was thrown
back, revealing a fine corselet of Har Graef black steel. One sword was
held before him, the other behind him, point facing away, so that a quick
attack would open Tyrion's gut.
They stood their ground, each respectful of the other's skills. Tyrion had
slain three assassins at once, including the most skilled of their number,
and even confronted a daemon afterwards. Urian had just slain two of
Ulthuan's greatest warriors, including the peerless Korhian.
Tyrion's white eyes narrowed. His hands clenched.
Urian's face changed as somehow he recognized the elflord before him. It
contorted with fury, and even maybe a touch of fear. But his stance stayed
unaltered. He did not move. His swords did not waver.
And Tyrion recognized Urian. Something, somehow - but he could not place
him.
They stayed there for a time, eyeing each other, gathering their strength.
Testing the other's patience and resolve.
Then they moved towards each other, blades flying. Tyrion's runesword drove
up and down, forcing Urian's first sword away. Urian swung his other foot
around so that he was facing the high elf square on, and whipped his other
blade around to catch Tyrion's exposed neck. Tyrion's blade came up and
parried the blow, then brought his sword down in an arc, which Urian spun
out away from. The scimitars came screaming in again, and now Tyrion
ducked, the imposing bulk of Aenarion's armour not hindering him in the
slightest. He pulled himself up, and lashed at Urian with a one-handed
swipe of his sword. Urian danced back, and Tyrion followed, hacking again.
His blow was parried, and the other scimitar spun as Urian twirled it
before sending it howling for his throat. But Tyrion drove his free right
hand into Urian's gut, throwing him backwards. The downed assassin landed
lightly, and rolled as Tyrion followed after him, returning to his feet.
Tyrion struck twice, and both times his attacks were parried, but now he
had the dark elf on the defensive. He struck again, forcing the assassin's
right sword out wide, then brought the blade across, Urian's a hairsbreadth
behind.
Blood sprayed, and the two warriors watched each other cautiously. Tyrion's
sword had torn along the inside of Urian's right arm, forcing him to drop
his scimitar as blood flowed freely. Urian's sword had narrowly missed
Tyrion's jugular and had torn a light furrow along his neck.
They panted hard as they waited for a time to regain their breath. Neither
had ever been challenged like this before.
Then they were upon each other. Urian clutched his single remaining
scimitar with his right hand, his left hanging limply at his side. They
hammered into each other, slashing, lunging, and ducking. Their blades
whirled in a storm of steel.
They locked in an overhead parry. Vuthil's blade forced hard at the high
elf's, slowly forcing Tyrion to the ground despite all of Tyrion's
strength. The assassin was far stronger than he looked, and Tyrion was
aghast when his own white eyes stared into flaming red orbs.
There was something seriously.wrong about Urian Poisonblade.
Tyrion kicked up with one foot, catching Urian in the gut. The dark elf
staggered, and Tyrion swung his blade out and prepared to continue his
assault.
Sudden black bands of energy caught him and slowed him.
Tyrion was frantic now. He could barely move as the pulsing light rushed
over him, and as all too quickly Urian Poisonblade came back in for the
kill.
Then another pulse of light, this one warm and nurturing, from the small
heart-shaped pendant that Alarielle had given him. It caught the black
bonds and banished them, freeing Tyrion. His sword came up and he parried
the blow that would have killed him, and the conflict continued.
Teclis knew. He felt the emanations of magic that came across the field, and recognized them for what they were. Malekith was trying to aid his champion. His hands came together quickly, and with the sound of the clap he sunk into the noise, blotted out the world, and became one with the other world that lay parallel to it, the world of the magic. He began to focus his attentions on the pulses and disturbances that he felt, and began to cancel them out systematically. Almost immediately he could feel another mind pushing against his, trying to fling his out of this place - and out of existence. It was the Witch-King. He fought back frantically, focusing the full might of his mind upon the battle, bringing the considerable force of the Warcrown into use. His mind stopped its rapid movement out of the Winds of Magic, and stayed still. But he could still feel the implacable might of the Witch-King assaulting his mind. They stayed there for a while, the mental energies of the two clashing in an assault that would have devastated the entire valley had they been used there. Teclis brought the sheer willpower of the most powerful mind of Ulthuan's defenders against the skills of one who had prepared six thousand years for this battle. It was a close match. Sweat poured down Teclis' face, coming in a waterfall off his nose. He was rapidly tiring. And the strength of the Witch-King was not abating.
Sword against sword, they spun, ducking and vaulting to avoid the deadly blades and the swift attacks with hands or legs, Tyrion and Urian's battle continued. Then suddenly Urian ceased spinning, and rammed his blade straight forward. Tyrion flung himself out of the way as best he could, and the assassin's sword cleft through air only. "You are slowing down, Tyrion," the assassin growled, the first words he had spoken in the duel. "I think I shall have you soon." Tyrion scrambled to his feet and brought Sunfang up to a ready position. "Big words. I'm not dead yet." he spat. Their swords swung again. The ring of steel. "At last I shall have your head," Urian jeered. "Just as you had mine!" And finally Tyrion recognized the dark elf. "Vuthil!" he gasped. Urian sneered. "You knew me as that. You killed me as that!" He struck harder, as if the memories fuelled him. Tyrion could only fall back against that might. "I was the greatest warrior alive! I had killed everything! I knew sword styles that had died out hundreds of years ago! I could defeat a daemon in combat! And you, miserable wretch, you killed me with a vile trick! You cheated!" Tyrion did not respond. He was too shocked at the unmasking of his nemesis, and his tongue was frozen. "But the Dread One in forgiving! He gave me a second chance! He reanimated my body and put my new soul into it! I am Vuthil, and I am N'Kari the daemon who killed you once and will do so again!" Vuthil rained mad blows upon Tyrion, and the high elf fell back, parrying as best he could. "This shall be my vengeance! I shall kill you now, here in front of your precious Everqueen! Then I shall kill her, and your pitiful brother, and Ulthuan's shall be ours at last!" Finally, Tyrion failed to parry. The blow struck him squarely in his chest, flinging him to the ground. The Dragon Armour saved him from death, but Vuthil loomed over him. "Die, damn you!" The curved blade rose up, as Tyrion lay uselessly on the ground. It caught a ray of light, and turned into liquid gold. Then Tyrion rolled, using his final trick. Vuthil watched in shock as Tyrion brought his blade up and then onward. It moved with a speed the assassin had no longer thought Tyrion capable of, a speed he had carefully hoarded and hidden. It struck the black chain shirt and burst through it, deep into Vuthil's body, and then came out the other side. Vuthil froze in shock and agony as a spray of blood poured over the now crouching Tyrion. He stared futilely at the hilt which Tyrion firmly held in both hands, which was drenched in his blood. He tried to finish his blow, but found he could not. The muscles in his body refused to work, and his hand released the sword. It fell and lay on the blood-soaked grass besides him. Tyrion withdrew the sword. More blood, and Vuthil was lying on the ground. "A trick," he hissed, his voice weak and nearly inaudible. "The oldest trick in the book. You killed me with the oldest trick in the book." Tyrion's hard white eyes offered no reply, and he did not speak. Then Vuthil shuddered and died. With a great cry of anger, the dark elves and their chaos-warped allies began to charge across the field towards the lone warrior. A heartbeat later, and the high elven warhost charged as well. The sun finally past the mountain-tops, and its warm rays washed over the field. Here, now, the fate of Ulthuan was to be decided.
Teclis knew. He felt the emanations of magic that came across the field, and recognized them for what they were. Malekith was trying to aid his champion. His hands came together quickly, and with the sound of the clap he sunk into the noise, blotted out the world, and became one with the other world that lay parallel to it, the world of the magic. He began to focus his attentions on the pulses and disturbances that he felt, and began to cancel them out systematically. Almost immediately he could feel another mind pushing against his, trying to fling his out of this place - and out of existence. It was the Witch-King. He fought back frantically, focusing the full might of his mind upon the battle, bringing the considerable force of the Warcrown into use. His mind stopped its rapid movement out of the Winds of Magic, and stayed still. But he could still feel the implacable might of the Witch-King assaulting his mind. They stayed there for a while, the mental energies of the two clashing in an assault that would have devastated the entire valley had they been used there. Teclis brought the sheer willpower of the most powerful mind of Ulthuan's defenders against the skills of one who had prepared six thousand years for this battle. It was a close match. Sweat poured down Teclis' face, coming in a waterfall off his nose. He was rapidly tiring. And the strength of the Witch-King was not abating.
Sword against sword, they spun, ducking and vaulting to avoid the deadly blades and the swift attacks with hands or legs, Tyrion and Urian's battle continued. Then suddenly Urian ceased spinning, and rammed his blade straight forward. Tyrion flung himself out of the way as best he could, and the assassin's sword cleft through air only. "You are slowing down, Tyrion," the assassin growled, the first words he had spoken in the duel. "I think I shall have you soon." Tyrion scrambled to his feet and brought Sunfang up to a ready position. "Big words. I'm not dead yet." he spat. Their swords swung again. The ring of steel. "At last I shall have your head," Urian jeered. "Just as you had mine!" And finally Tyrion recognized the dark elf. "Vuthil!" he gasped. Urian sneered. "You knew me as that. You killed me as that!" He struck harder, as if the memories fuelled him. Tyrion could only fall back against that might. "I was the greatest warrior alive! I had killed everything! I knew sword styles that had died out hundreds of years ago! I could defeat a daemon in combat! And you, miserable wretch, you killed me with a vile trick! You cheated!" Tyrion did not respond. He was too shocked at the unmasking of his nemesis, and his tongue was frozen. "But the Dread One in forgiving! He gave me a second chance! He reanimated my body and put my new soul into it! I am Vuthil, and I am N'Kari the daemon who killed you once and will do so again!" Vuthil rained mad blows upon Tyrion, and the high elf fell back, parrying as best he could. "This shall be my vengeance! I shall kill you now, here in front of your precious Everqueen! Then I shall kill her, and your pitiful brother, and Ulthuan's shall be ours at last!" Finally, Tyrion failed to parry. The blow struck him squarely in his chest, flinging him to the ground. The Dragon Armour saved him from death, but Vuthil loomed over him. "Die, damn you!" The curved blade rose up, as Tyrion lay uselessly on the ground. It caught a ray of light, and turned into liquid gold. Then Tyrion rolled, using his final trick. Vuthil watched in shock as Tyrion brought his blade up and then onward. It moved with a speed the assassin had no longer thought Tyrion capable of, a speed he had carefully hoarded and hidden. It struck the black chain shirt and burst through it, deep into Vuthil's body, and then came out the other side. Vuthil froze in shock and agony as a spray of blood poured over the now crouching Tyrion. He stared futilely at the hilt which Tyrion firmly held in both hands, which was drenched in his blood. He tried to finish his blow, but found he could not. The muscles in his body refused to work, and his hand released the sword. It fell and lay on the blood-soaked grass besides him. Tyrion withdrew the sword. More blood, and Vuthil was lying on the ground. "A trick," he hissed, his voice weak and nearly inaudible. "The oldest trick in the book. You killed me with the oldest trick in the book." Tyrion's hard white eyes offered no reply, and he did not speak. Then Vuthil shuddered and died. With a great cry of anger, the dark elves and their chaos-warped allies began to charge across the field towards the lone warrior. A heartbeat later, and the high elven warhost charged as well. The sun finally past the mountain-tops, and its warm rays washed over the field. Here, now, the fate of Ulthuan was to be decided.