The dawn-sprayed field stank of Vuthil's blood, and the unholy presence of
the daemon's soul tainted Tyrion's senses.
Dazed by the sudden end of the fighting, he slowly raised his head, and
gazed at the vast host that bore down on him. He rose his sword, and
prepared for them to come, to sell his life as dearly as possible.
But from the high elven lines, like a ray of white lightning, came
Malhandir, the great horse easily outpacing the other horses. It burst from
their ranks towards Tyrion.
"Malhandir!" Tyrion screamed, seeing his one chance at life.
The steed came to him. He pulled himself on to the pure white back, and
brandished Sunfang as the horse reared and spun.
And then the first of the dark elves were upon him. Screaming their song of
blood, a band of five reached him first. Malhandir moved instinctively, and
Tyrion marveled his empathy with the horse, for the intelligent elf horse
knew his every thought. Sunfang blazed as it cleft the first in twain, and
Malhandir's hooves crushed the next dark elf's skull.
And then the tides were upon them. The individual cries were drowned out in
the chaotic roar as the two elven armies met each other. Tyrion fought with
fury and skill at the centre now, abandoning tactics.
This was not a duel, with two skilled opponents using tactics and wits to
best the other. This was pitched battle, and the one who could slaughter
the fastest would win.
Tyrion cleft down dark elves with every strike. None could stand before him
in his fury. And echoing him, the high elves fought with all their passion.
Even so, it was not enough.
Calarion and Ikarus found themselves fighting together. Together, the two great heroes commanded the right flank, and under the sword and book banner of the line of Sapherior and the three silver stars of the Felix Legion, they held their ground desperately. For all their skill, they were heavily outnumbered. For all their skill, they were losing. Calarion's great golden sword flew, tearing through a dark elf's chest and killing him with a spray of gore. Then back across, and a dark elf was falling back, blood spurting from his throat. A dark elven blade caught him hard on the shoulder, swinging him around. His blade came back, and the severed torso slid off as the legs collapsed. But now Calarion was moving slower, and another sword struck him, opening up his cheek. Blood ran down his face. He ignored it, and swung again, taking this dark elf at the shoulder and opening his chest from there to his hip. The next sword hit his chest. And another came for his sword arm. The golden blade skittered away in the churned-up ground. Calarion staggered back, and prepared for the next blow to open his head. "Ulthuan! Ulthuan!" Tarran Angedhel led the counterattack, a blood-smeared band of the Siltholrim. Swords scythed as they hit the warriors. Blood sprayed, as one of the knights, Yethirin, pulled Calarion to his feet. A dark elf came at him then, but the loyal high elf swung, and the dark elf fell back, his throat torn open. "Many thanks, Yethirin," Calarion said, and grasped his sword again. A dark elven knight hurtled out of the battle now, mounted on a ravening lizard. Its great jaws snapped as it came forwards, and the rider aimed his lance at Calarion. Calarion spun, and raised his shield in futile defense. But the rider had counted without Yethirin. He sprang into the dark elf knight, knocking him clear from the lizard. Swords hacked desperately at each other, and one rose - Yethirin, bloody but alive. The cold one sprang at him, and the silver helm flung his sword, so that it tore into the beast's chest, opening it up. It shuddered and fell heavily. Yethirin turned to Calarion slowly, and Calarion could see how his friend was hurt. "Sleep in peace and awake in joy," Yethirin said, as if pronouncing it over his own corpse. Then, more lucidly, he addressed Calarion, and the elf prince saw the great wound now across the knight's chest. "See you at Asuryan." Then Yethirin fell, and Calarion knew that his friend was dead, another casualty of the day - as he himself would soon be. Across the other side of the banners, Ikarus had a clearer view of what they were against. Across the field the elves were locked in bloody melees. And above them griffin riders clashed with hordes of fell harpies in intricate aerial maneuvers. And before him now the wave of cavalry that had struck them. Ikarus was a superior warrior, though. He could sense the rest of his personal band around him, fighting furiously. Helios was crying something as he directed a band of spearmen before dark elven knights hit into them. A dark elf came for him. A quick step aside, and a downward strike, and the dark elf hung limply in his saddle. Another cold one bore down on him. He swung again, opening its chest up, and struck off the head of its rider as the cold one fell. A sword struck his helm, making his head ring. He spun, blade leading, only for a parry. The dark elven warlord struck again, and this time Ikarus ducked, lashing his blade across from left to right. It struck the cold one, causing its side to explode in gore. The dark elf vaulted off from the dead mount and eyed Ikarus mockingly, hefting his blade now in two hands. Ikarus charged, and any distractions were swallowed up by the sound of steel on steel. But the dark elf was his equal. He lunged, only to find his opponent not where he had expected. The dark elf stood to one side, and calmly slammed one steel-plated fist into Ikarus' face. The high elf fell back with a shriek of pain. Blood oozed from his torn face. With a quick slash, the dark elf tried to cleave Ikarus in twain. Ikarus hopped back, and the sword caught his forehead, running down to his chin. Ikarus caught a pool of blood in his leather-gloved hand as it ran down his ruined face. Then he flung it aside, and grasped his sword with two hands, daring the dark elf to come closer. The warlord sneered at him.
Thaindal screamed, head thrown back so that his long gray hair streamed behind him. Stormcleaver his halberd howled as it arced through the air, and a spray of blood came as it hewed down the man-beast he fought. Foul things they were! The dark elves, while twisted and demented fiends, still were elves, with an elf's grace and elf's poise. But these - things - were simply ravening brute berserkers, a foul compound of sickeningly ugly human features and vicious animals. He took the halberd again backwards, catching an eagle-faced beastmen in the beak, tearing clear off the lower half of its' head. The thing fell back from his speeding chariot, and was crushed by the chariot immediately behind him. Before him his charioteer Elrandis guided him onwards, making the team of the four white elf steeds move to the slightest touch of the reins - all that was ever needed for the fantastic beasts - and the chariot swerved to avoid a thick mass of the man-things. They came, howling like the animals they resembled, swine and bulls and goats and more superimposed by the taint of Chaos. Thaindal swung Stormcleaver again and blood sprayed. He cleft them down and again they kept moving. An elven cream made the Prince turn his head. The chariot of the skilled she-elf Vaneira had fallen, pulled down by the beastmen. One wheel splintered, and the other spinning uselessly in the air. There was nothing he could do for her, no way he could have had Elrandis turn the chariot. He kept his eyes averted from the grisly end of one of his finest and tried to ignore the slobbering noises of bestial hunger being fulfilled. Something reared up before him, and the white horses panicked. Thaindal himself could barely repress a shudder as the massive bladed club held by the eight foot monstrosity struck and splintered the front of the chariot. The chariot stopped, ruined beyond any hope. And its stopping was aided by how the large metal spear set between the middle horses struck the monster's gut, bent somewhat, and then punctured the stomach fully, sending bloody froth coming out the other side. Elrandis and Thaindal dismounted, the charioteer drawing his short-bladed sword. They could barely hear amidst the sound of slaughter. Five beastmen came at them, swinging axes and great swords. Elrandis struck out, and his blow was rewarded by the spray of blood from a shoulder and a bellow of pain. Thaindal's own halberd caught another, shearing him in twain. The prince freed his weapon in time to see the wounded beastman raise his axe and strike Elrandis a powerful blow square on his head. "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Thaindal screamed as his friend's head disappeared in a mass of red and gray gore. His lashed with the halberd, severing the beastman's arm before burying the head of the halberd squarely in its chest. But now three of the monsters were on him, and he was all alone. The lord of Tiranoc shook his flowing mane, as if in denial of the odds, and charged. He felt his halberd sink into flesh, and he pulled it out, the roar in his ear nearly deafening him. He was surprised when the blade struck him. It caught his left shoulder and sheared down into his torso. With a surprised grunt, Thaindal toppled, Stormcleaver falling from hands that could no longer grasp, still somehow alive after the terrible wound, despite blood spraying messily. But he was not alive for much longer.
The old Loremaster held his sword tightly in withered hands. He'd not wanted to be here. He was not a warrior. He was not a battle mage skilled in the use of fire and lightning. He was simply old Belannaer, Loremaster, wise and knowledgeable. He wasn't a warrior now. He hadn't been a warrior before when he was young either. Yes, like all elves he had been trained in the use of the sword and bow, but never had he been particularly adept at such things. He had no inclination to be here, leading the Swordmasters of the Tower into battle against their ancient enemy, and usually his word would have been enough. But the word of the one who had taken the War-crown of Saphery was worthless. How he rued that action at times! He had known, all that time ago, that were young Teclis to leave the Tower without it, he would die and events would turn out far darker. Without it, this battle would not be taking place - as they would all have been dead already. He still knew it was the right action. But when the ambitious Herulach had discovered the loss of the War-crown, he had turned it into a great weapon against his once-mentor and now rival for power with the destruction of poor Cyeos' mind. Look at Belannaer! he had said. Look at this thief-Loremaster who pilfers our treasures! And so now, having lost all the power and influence he had ever had, he had been sent here to lose his life as well with a single group of the Swordmasters. Besides him Seridan nodded gravely. The veteran captain spun his twin blades in intricate arcs before him, daring the dark elves to appear. Around two of them, the rest of the elves stood, clad in long ithilmar mail coats and grasping their fine greatswords cautiously, waiting for the dark elves. And there they came, howling towards them, brandishing sword axe both, long scaled cloaks banner-like behind them. The Swordmasters moved to meet them, and steel flew. Several came at Belannaer, and the Loremaster gestured, invoking a power he abhorred with all his soul. Flames sparked from his hand and raced down it into a dark elf, snuffing out his life instantly with ease. Sickening. Seridan sprang into the main mob, twin swords flying gracefully. The shorter sword parried with ease as the longer tore clean kills through throat and chest. Another broke free and sprang at Belannaer, and the old Loremaster was too startled to react with a spell. He jerked his silver blade up, and watched with shock as the dark elf ran onto it. The force of the impact jarred the sword clear from Belannaer's hands. The dark elf staggered onwards, and Belannaer was repulsed by the bloody spittle and the crazed look of the dying elf's face. The dark elf rose his axe and lowered. A weak blow from the last strength he possessed - but still enough to strike deep into Belannaer. Blood flowed over the horrified mage's robes, staining them deeply. He still had enough presence of mind to wrench the sword free of the corpse, and enough strength of mind to keep on his feet. About half the Swordmasters were dead or dying now, and the rest traded blows with a different foe, scantily clad but raging Witch-elves. Their twin scimitars drooled poison and they attacked with frenzied abandon. They reminded Belannaer of nothing so much as an orgy of blood. Seridan stood still, blades tearing through bared flesh. He showed no sign of discomfort, so perfect was his concentration. He was a killing machine. Belannaer shifted his sword and joined him, preparing again the repulsive spells that would obliterate his opponents' souls and set fire to their minds. He would do what he must do.
Arhaindir Moonhand readied his longbow. His small force clustered around him, clad in the blue and red of Nagarythe or the green and white of Avelorn. He could see his captains - Cedwyn Brighteye, gruff and calm, the eternal veteran and master archer; the spears of Telimis the great-hearted and brave; and his wife Isil'wen, Noble- Born of Avelorn. Though she was not really a captain - her spirit was easily a match for his own. As it should be, he reminded himself with an inward smile, reminding himself as he always did before the battles of happier moments so that should he die he would go to Morai-Heg thinking only of the good moments of his life. He recalled the dark elf raid a scant twenty years ago. He'd gone to Avelorn to pursue a band of raiders who had fled into the forests. His men had found them and hewn him down so easily, but on the way home he chose, on a whim, to stop at the Evercourt to rest for the night. And what a good decision it had been! There he had met the fair lady, and love had soon sparked. She'd taught him to look past the darkness in his soul, to become a better elf. In exchange he had left his home, married her a scant five years later. And their beautiful daughter appeared soon, his dear Si'anelle. They were pleasant memories indeed. His hands felt the smooth wood of his great bow. He was a master shot, and proficient enough with his mage-wrought blade. He would lead the small force that remained of his household, and they would do what damage they could. His force had been held back from the initial charge as a small force to harass the dark elven lines. Two forces of archers - his own highly trained skirmishers and Isil'wen's marksmen - and one force of spears. He could only hope it was enough to make a difference. He could see from the concealed position the sights of the battle. Elf spearmen fought in vicious swirling melees, and blood stained the entire vista. The cries of the dying and the cries of pain or victory formed themselves in Arhaindir's ears into some unholy cacophony. He turned his head as his leather-gloved hands took one arrow and set it in place on his bow. "Time to move," he whispered, and the elves prepared. How many would die this day? Looking over the course of the battle, the enraged dark elves pouring through the valiant high elven defenses, he wondered whether he should be wondering how many would survive this day. And Arhaindir's elves broke from their cover. At a sprint they moved forward, weapons held ready. Arhaindir's skirmishers were at the fore, bows held parallel to the ground, arrows nocked. A dark elf sprang at them, his barbed blade smeared with the blood of the fallen. Arhaindir whipped his bow around and released his arrow swiftly. The shaft struck the druchii in the chest and punched directly through, sending him toppling backwards. Arhaindir paid him no more mind and swiftly aimed another arrow. The dark elf was followed by more. Clambering over the corpses of a group of Prince Ikarus' Felix Guard, dark elves flung themselves at Moonhand. His elves released their shafts, sending several on to the pile, their blood to mix with those they had slain. The rest came into melee with the skirmishers. Arhaindir dropped his greatbow and tore free the rune-carved ilthilmar longsword. The skirmishers fell back, blades weaving dexterously in defense. And then they melted away, through the lines of Telimis' spears, and the dark elves were confronted with a barrier of bristling silver spear-tips. They charged in, and the air was filled with blood and battle. Arhaindir saw Telimis fall. The great-hearted elf's spear was knocked from his hands, and the dark elves swarmed over him. Swords rose and fell swiftly, and Arhaindir gave a cry of anguish as his friend was slaughtered. Brandishing his blade, he ran in towards the corpse. And he was aware of the presence of more dark elves. Many more than the small group he had lured in. An entire regiment of dark elves was tearing at them, and they were outnumbered maybe three to one, maybe more. With horror he could see Isil'wen trying to fend off attacks from vicious Black Guard, Malekith's private soldiers with her long hunting knife. She was not skilled in combat initially, and a knife was a poor weapon against a halberd. Moonhand flung himself on to the Black Guardsman. His blade flew with the skills he had picked up fighting at Tor Yvresse and Lothern during this long war. He knew how dark elves fought, and now unleashed all his experience in a deadly whirlwind of sword-blows. The Black Guardsman fell, and Arhaindir was at Isil'wen's side. "It's a good thing I got to you in time," he said, blade fending off attacks. Isil'wen turned to face Arhaindir, mouth opened. For an instant he thought she was about to say something, but he realized the truth when he saw the agony on her face, the blood speckling her lips, and the barbed halberd- head embedded deep in her side. The halberd came out, and Isil'wen fell. And Arhaindir screamed, a primal shriek of rage and loss and pure anguish. Tears ran down his grimacing face as he took the longsword in both hands. "Die, you druchii bastards!" he wept, swinging his sword like a berserker, charging into the midst of the Black Guard, the members of the Witch-King's personal army. He cut down about twenty of them before a halberd caught his arm, tearing through it so that it tore a huge chunk of flesh off and forced Arhaindir to drop the blade. He could hardly see, the tears were so thick, but he drew with his left hand his own dagger and waved it, daring the Black Guard to come on. They formed a circle around him, cautious now of this brave and deadly fool, advancing slowly. It took a long time for Moonhand to die. But when he did, covered with wounds grievous enough to fell any three elves, his knife broken but smeared with the blood of his foes, his blood running into the mud he had churned up, the light leaving his eyes, he whispered two final words. The first was "Isil'wen." The second was "Si'anelle."
And in the middle of the chaos, in a world that was parallel to and separate from where the elves fought and Arhaindir Moonhand had just breathed his last, the mage Teclis still battled with the immeasurable might of Malekith, the Witch-King. His every muscle was tensed as he strained, but try as he could the sheer power of the dark elf was beyond reckoning. There was no way that he could resist. And when he fell, as fall he must, Malekith would be free to dedicate his entire attention to the battle. And all the High Elves would die then. Calarion, Ikarus, Tyrion, Alarielle, Belannaer, all of them. There was only him left. Only he, left against the strength of the lord of the dark elves. And it was too much. His concentration snapped, like a tense harp-string which has suddenly been slit. Malekith's mind was all over his immediately, and the end was upon him. But new supplies of strength flowed into his body. Teclis, he heard. Use the staff. Tyrion's voice. And the new might of his brother's mind, strengthened after his saving of the Everqueen and his resurrection, poured into him, revitalizing him. With a thought, he encapsulated Malekith's mind in a ball of light, flung back his enemy's attack. Then he felt out the magical emanations of his staff, as they flowed into this world. It gave him strength. Maybe it could restore the strength of his mind as well. And it could. Linked in mind now, the full willpower of one who had died and returned, and the force of will of the great mage, united. Malekith's own energies shrank back, aware of its sudden vulnerability. But together the brothers returned the assault, a blast of pure white that tore through the winds of magic after Malekith's fleeing presence, intent on blasting the dark one out of existence at last.
Malekith's mind returned to his body. He could feel again, as he always had been able to feel, the pain of his scars, the burning fires of Asuryan, as he always would feel. And for the first time in five thousand years, the Witch-King was afraid. For he had found at last his two-faced man, as Khaine had promised. For the twin brothers were as one mind, one soul, in two bodies. The peerless warrior and the peerless mage. And there was no way he could ever defeat them. For a month he had felt the sensation of the war somehow slipping from his grasp. The muster, the continued inability of his agents to find Alarielle or the war-crown (and how he cursed that short-sightedness now!), the report of Mortharor's death and the foiling of the attack on Lothern. The white bolt of pure magic manifested itself in front of Malekith's chariot, and the ancient elf reached twisted fingers to a ring he wore. A simple spell, and he would be far away from here. Then his chariot exploded in white flames.
A massive fireball mushroomed into the sky, a cloud of white flame, blinding the eyes of all who saw it, coming from the centre of the dark elven ranks. Malekith, the elves said with despair or amazed joy on their lips. The Witch-King, scourge of the high elves for six thousand years, was dead. Tyrion's blade was doused in dark elven blood, but he saw the explosion and the sudden loss of morale of the dark elves. And somehow he knew what had happened, had the image of a white fireball and of his mind joining with Teclis'. He twitched his knees and Malhandir responded immediately. He knew now that there was a chance. Malhandir brought him through the ranks of the dark elves, a lone warrior pressing to hold their advantage. Sunfang cleft through dark elves, through scaled monstrosities and bat-winged harpies. And then he found himself confronting the heart of the army, the huge bannerpole with the skull and arrow emblazoned upon it. The best warriors of the dark elves moved forward to intercept them. But compared to Vuthil, they were mere amateurs. Tyrion's golden blade hewed them down with ease, and Malhandir trampled them into the ground. Malhandir reared, and with a mighty blow Tyrion struck the bannerpole and cleft clean through it. The black oak splintered, the skull and star tumbled slowly, washed by the morning light. It struck the ground heavily amidst cries of rage and despair. Tyrion urged Malhandir onwards. Sunfang cleft a path to the fallen banner, and Malhandir trampled the standard into the ground.
Ikarus discarded his shield and grasped his long blade in both hands. Opposite him, the dark elf grimaced wickedly, savouring the moment of victory. "And now I will be Kaeul, slayer of the great Prince Ikarus!" the dark elf jeered. Ikarus laughed. "You want my head?" He gestured. "Come get it." But he spoke with confidence he did not feel. His concentration was broken with the agony of the face wound, and he would make mistakes now, mistakes which Kaeul would be quick to capitalize upon. And if Kaeul did not kill him, then another of this numberless tide would. "Caledor!" he roared, and sprinted towards the dark elf, blade held low behind him. "Caledor and Ulthuan!" Their blades crashed together with terrible force. Ikarus' blade flew up in a vicious arc to over his shoulder, and Kaeul parried in mid-swing the blow that would have opened his gut. Ikarus disengaged, pulled his blade back over his head and slashed, but the dark elf set his feet and caught it up high. Their blades locked, and Ikarus strained to throw back the dark elf. But Kaeul was stronger, and he sent Ikarus tumbling back on to the torn-up turf. He followed immediately, trying to kill Ikarus quickly. But the Caledorian was a canny warrior. He rolled swiftly out of the way, hooking one leg between Kaeul's, causing the dark elf to fall with an oath. And then Ikarus used the impetus of his roll to come back to his feet. They met each other again, Kaeul on his knees and Ikarus standing. Ikarus' blade hammered down, raining impassioned blows upon the dark elf, while Kaeul's blade frantically tried for defense of some sort. But Kaeul was slowly working his way back up to his feet, while Ikarus' arms tired. Then the white fireball rose into the sky, and the huge black and purple standard toppled, and Kaeul froze from shock. His final error. Ikarus' blade caught him square on the crest of his ornate bat-winged helm, sending the dark elf back and tearing the wing off. Then Ikarus' foot snapped forward and caught the Kaeul in the gut. The impact forced Kaeul back again. Ikarus' next blow struck the dark elf under one armpit, sheer momentum making it cleave onward through black plate. The ilthilmar blade burned a bright red as it cleft through the druchii. Then it was flying out the other side, and Kaeul's severed upper torso landed on the ground with a wet splat next to the rest of the body. Ikarus strode off, ignoring the corpse.
Ethendir's horse reared and the elf Prince slashed a quick blow at the red- plated chaos warrior, tearing through an exposed throat. The left flank was not holding up well. Thaindal of Tiranoc, their commander, was dead, and the bestial fiends and plated monsters seemed to be immune to any damage that the horse-people could throw at them. Their spirit was waning. And the messages he received from the other parts of the battle showed a similar state of affairs reigned. Slowly, the high elves were being defeated. He could see to his left the two mages of Thaindal's household, the brother and sister Dairsyn and Alaesur, galloping through the carnage, flames springing from their fingertips, tearing into the dark elves. He smiled grimly. Those two were far more competent then they had a right to be. But they were not enough to win a battle. That he would have to do - on this flank, at least. His eyes picked out a massive figure, an immense monstrosity of plates and spikes and chains. Swinging a greatsword that might weigh as much as Ethendir himself. He turned his horse towards it, seized a broken shaft of a lance from the ground, and set off at a gallop. Around him, the Ellyrian and Tiranoc elves fought valiantly to clear him a path through the battle. "Chaos fiend!" he howled, his voice carrying across to the monster. It turned, raising the sword as the single crazed horseman bore down upon it. The lance struck it then, in a clear spot at the side of the breastplate. With the force and weight of the charge behind it, it blasted through the plate and in a spray of blood sunk deep into the chaos lord's chest. But somehow the monster did not fall. The chaos lord rose up ponderously, and Ethendir could see that he had gravely wounded it, but still he hefted his immense sword and faced the elf defiantly. "Elf," the chaos lord boomed in an inhuman, warped voice. "Die." And then they charged at each other, blades flying. Ethendir's light sword hit the plate armor with all the force he could muster and simply bounced off. The greatsword struck the horse with impossible strength, killing it instantly. Down Ethendir went, and he came back to his feet groggily. The chaos lord eyed him. "Die," it said again, and Ethendir was afraid. They lunged at each other, and Ethendir abandoned any attempt to parry the sword. He flung himself beneath it, and with a desperate prayer to Kurnous struck out. His sword struck the edge of the lance, and drove it deeper into the body of the chaos lord. More blood wheezed out. They broke back and eyed each other again. Then the chaos lord toppled. Cheers came from the high elves, a chorus of new hope. And Ethendir staggered away slowly to find himself another horse, as the elves pressed on with new strength.
Calarion stood in the middle of a pile of corpses, soaked in blood. Many were dark elves. Many were not. And the two remaining members of his bodyguard stood by him as well, in similar shape. Tarran Angedhel's armour was torn and blood ran from his leg. Alar Silverhand's right arm hung limply and he wielded his blade with his left. But the tide of the battle had changed. The dark elves were falling back, demoralized and dispirited by the death of their leader and the fall of their standard. And now the gold lightning of Tyrion tore through their ranks, and the white lightning of the mage Teclis hammered into their ranks again and again. "Onward!" Calarion cried, and his companions - the two knights and a small band of spearmen - charged onwards, crying the names of their land and their leader. One of the spearmen held the book and blade banner, and it waved proudly as the final remnants of Tarthalion's army fought onwards. Their way was paved with blood at every step, and one by one the last spearmen fell, but for every one who fell the dark elves dropped back further and further, and more of their corpses littered the ground. And it was the same everywhere. Against all the odds, the high elves were winning. Had Malekith been alive, his sheer presence would have brought the victory back to the dark elves. Had Mortharor been alive, his skilled strategies would doubtlessly have defeated the high elves. But Malekith had died in the fireball, and Calarion himself had run Mortharor through. And now, leaderless, spiritless, the dark elves were dying in their swarms. Calarion's blade led the way, with Tarran and Alar a step behind to his sides. They ran down the dark elves, as did the rest of the great army. Almost as one, the great army of dark elves finally through down their arms and fled the field. And as one, the victorious high elves swept after them, engulfing them, running them down. Few dark elves survived. Calarion's spirits were high for the first time in months, since Tarthalion's death. He had achieved the goal his father had died for, and now surely it was all over. Then a small force of dark elves appeared, the Black Guard of Naggarond. They still fought on, and they plunged in towards Calarion's banner. The small but veteran band of spears and blades fought back against the elite warriors of the Witch-King, cutting them down one by one. Calarion met their leader in the middle of the field, a vicious warrior soaked in elf blood. Their blades flashed once, and the dark elf fell, cleft in twain. Then something heavy struck the prince on the side of his head. Blood soaking his golden hair, he fell, and the world turned black as the Black Guard rushed forwards.
And the slaughter was over. Tyrion looked around the expanses of Finuval Plain, the isolated valley that would be remembered forever. He could see no trace of the grass, so totally covered was it by corpses and blood. He moved as in shock. All about him, high elves moved around, looking for their friends, weeping quietly over corpses. Several bodies of heroes had been recovered, and many more heroes walked still. Tyrion chuckled. They were all heroes. Every high elf that had fought that day was a hero. And their deeds would never be forgotten. He could see several of the commanders. Over to his left he could see Ethendir, and cheers greeted his presence as the tale of his stand against the chaos lord spread. And Thaindal's corpse slumped over the back of the Ellyrian's horse, his gray hair soaked with blood. There was Ikarus, the great general, the one who had fought valiantly to get to this place, who had defeated one of Malekith's generals in hand-to- hand combat, his flame-red armour muddied and bloodied, but still proud. And there was another corpse, that of Arhaindir Moonhand. The survivors of his small force, a scant score of elves led by the archer Cedwyn Brighteye and the young she-elf Nimine Starbrow, of whom all attested to her courage when she held together Telimis the Brave's spear-wielding elves in the face of Witch Elves, spoke of Arhaindir's heroic last stand, and all agreed he was truly a great hero. Belannaer, Loremaster of Hoeth, the old elf still strong and proud amidst his swordmasters. His magic had been instrumental in holding the central lines. And there was the sword and book still flying triumphantly with ten spearmen still under it, and the two elf knights Tarran Angedhel and Alar Silverhand supporting the unconscious form of Prince Calarion. They had defended his body against the Black Guard, a foe of ruthlessness and skill, and saved their lord's life. Teclis, his brother, leant on his staff, exhausted. A true hero of the battle, for the elves were already beginning to speak of him in awed voices, comparing him to Caledor Dragon-Tamer of old. And finally his eyes came to rest on the white-robed she-elf picking her way wearily through the host of corpses, surrounded by bloodied elf maidens, supported by Naideth Morningstar, looking for him. Alarielle. He flung himself off Malhandir and sprinted towards her, a great and weary form in gold plate. She turned and saw him, and her eyes lit up. And then they were in each other's arms, lips firmly pressed together, delighting in the simple joy of each other's life. They broke off the kiss, and Tyrion turned to face the elves, still holding Alarielle around the waist. Sunfang gleamed in the now midday light as he drove it high into the air. "Ulthuan!" he cried. "Ulthuan!" And his cry was echoed by the victors of the great battle, as swords, spears, axes, bows, or fists were brandished. "Ulthuan!" they roared. "Ulthuan!"
Calarion and Ikarus found themselves fighting together. Together, the two great heroes commanded the right flank, and under the sword and book banner of the line of Sapherior and the three silver stars of the Felix Legion, they held their ground desperately. For all their skill, they were heavily outnumbered. For all their skill, they were losing. Calarion's great golden sword flew, tearing through a dark elf's chest and killing him with a spray of gore. Then back across, and a dark elf was falling back, blood spurting from his throat. A dark elven blade caught him hard on the shoulder, swinging him around. His blade came back, and the severed torso slid off as the legs collapsed. But now Calarion was moving slower, and another sword struck him, opening up his cheek. Blood ran down his face. He ignored it, and swung again, taking this dark elf at the shoulder and opening his chest from there to his hip. The next sword hit his chest. And another came for his sword arm. The golden blade skittered away in the churned-up ground. Calarion staggered back, and prepared for the next blow to open his head. "Ulthuan! Ulthuan!" Tarran Angedhel led the counterattack, a blood-smeared band of the Siltholrim. Swords scythed as they hit the warriors. Blood sprayed, as one of the knights, Yethirin, pulled Calarion to his feet. A dark elf came at him then, but the loyal high elf swung, and the dark elf fell back, his throat torn open. "Many thanks, Yethirin," Calarion said, and grasped his sword again. A dark elven knight hurtled out of the battle now, mounted on a ravening lizard. Its great jaws snapped as it came forwards, and the rider aimed his lance at Calarion. Calarion spun, and raised his shield in futile defense. But the rider had counted without Yethirin. He sprang into the dark elf knight, knocking him clear from the lizard. Swords hacked desperately at each other, and one rose - Yethirin, bloody but alive. The cold one sprang at him, and the silver helm flung his sword, so that it tore into the beast's chest, opening it up. It shuddered and fell heavily. Yethirin turned to Calarion slowly, and Calarion could see how his friend was hurt. "Sleep in peace and awake in joy," Yethirin said, as if pronouncing it over his own corpse. Then, more lucidly, he addressed Calarion, and the elf prince saw the great wound now across the knight's chest. "See you at Asuryan." Then Yethirin fell, and Calarion knew that his friend was dead, another casualty of the day - as he himself would soon be. Across the other side of the banners, Ikarus had a clearer view of what they were against. Across the field the elves were locked in bloody melees. And above them griffin riders clashed with hordes of fell harpies in intricate aerial maneuvers. And before him now the wave of cavalry that had struck them. Ikarus was a superior warrior, though. He could sense the rest of his personal band around him, fighting furiously. Helios was crying something as he directed a band of spearmen before dark elven knights hit into them. A dark elf came for him. A quick step aside, and a downward strike, and the dark elf hung limply in his saddle. Another cold one bore down on him. He swung again, opening its chest up, and struck off the head of its rider as the cold one fell. A sword struck his helm, making his head ring. He spun, blade leading, only for a parry. The dark elven warlord struck again, and this time Ikarus ducked, lashing his blade across from left to right. It struck the cold one, causing its side to explode in gore. The dark elf vaulted off from the dead mount and eyed Ikarus mockingly, hefting his blade now in two hands. Ikarus charged, and any distractions were swallowed up by the sound of steel on steel. But the dark elf was his equal. He lunged, only to find his opponent not where he had expected. The dark elf stood to one side, and calmly slammed one steel-plated fist into Ikarus' face. The high elf fell back with a shriek of pain. Blood oozed from his torn face. With a quick slash, the dark elf tried to cleave Ikarus in twain. Ikarus hopped back, and the sword caught his forehead, running down to his chin. Ikarus caught a pool of blood in his leather-gloved hand as it ran down his ruined face. Then he flung it aside, and grasped his sword with two hands, daring the dark elf to come closer. The warlord sneered at him.
Thaindal screamed, head thrown back so that his long gray hair streamed behind him. Stormcleaver his halberd howled as it arced through the air, and a spray of blood came as it hewed down the man-beast he fought. Foul things they were! The dark elves, while twisted and demented fiends, still were elves, with an elf's grace and elf's poise. But these - things - were simply ravening brute berserkers, a foul compound of sickeningly ugly human features and vicious animals. He took the halberd again backwards, catching an eagle-faced beastmen in the beak, tearing clear off the lower half of its' head. The thing fell back from his speeding chariot, and was crushed by the chariot immediately behind him. Before him his charioteer Elrandis guided him onwards, making the team of the four white elf steeds move to the slightest touch of the reins - all that was ever needed for the fantastic beasts - and the chariot swerved to avoid a thick mass of the man-things. They came, howling like the animals they resembled, swine and bulls and goats and more superimposed by the taint of Chaos. Thaindal swung Stormcleaver again and blood sprayed. He cleft them down and again they kept moving. An elven cream made the Prince turn his head. The chariot of the skilled she-elf Vaneira had fallen, pulled down by the beastmen. One wheel splintered, and the other spinning uselessly in the air. There was nothing he could do for her, no way he could have had Elrandis turn the chariot. He kept his eyes averted from the grisly end of one of his finest and tried to ignore the slobbering noises of bestial hunger being fulfilled. Something reared up before him, and the white horses panicked. Thaindal himself could barely repress a shudder as the massive bladed club held by the eight foot monstrosity struck and splintered the front of the chariot. The chariot stopped, ruined beyond any hope. And its stopping was aided by how the large metal spear set between the middle horses struck the monster's gut, bent somewhat, and then punctured the stomach fully, sending bloody froth coming out the other side. Elrandis and Thaindal dismounted, the charioteer drawing his short-bladed sword. They could barely hear amidst the sound of slaughter. Five beastmen came at them, swinging axes and great swords. Elrandis struck out, and his blow was rewarded by the spray of blood from a shoulder and a bellow of pain. Thaindal's own halberd caught another, shearing him in twain. The prince freed his weapon in time to see the wounded beastman raise his axe and strike Elrandis a powerful blow square on his head. "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Thaindal screamed as his friend's head disappeared in a mass of red and gray gore. His lashed with the halberd, severing the beastman's arm before burying the head of the halberd squarely in its chest. But now three of the monsters were on him, and he was all alone. The lord of Tiranoc shook his flowing mane, as if in denial of the odds, and charged. He felt his halberd sink into flesh, and he pulled it out, the roar in his ear nearly deafening him. He was surprised when the blade struck him. It caught his left shoulder and sheared down into his torso. With a surprised grunt, Thaindal toppled, Stormcleaver falling from hands that could no longer grasp, still somehow alive after the terrible wound, despite blood spraying messily. But he was not alive for much longer.
The old Loremaster held his sword tightly in withered hands. He'd not wanted to be here. He was not a warrior. He was not a battle mage skilled in the use of fire and lightning. He was simply old Belannaer, Loremaster, wise and knowledgeable. He wasn't a warrior now. He hadn't been a warrior before when he was young either. Yes, like all elves he had been trained in the use of the sword and bow, but never had he been particularly adept at such things. He had no inclination to be here, leading the Swordmasters of the Tower into battle against their ancient enemy, and usually his word would have been enough. But the word of the one who had taken the War-crown of Saphery was worthless. How he rued that action at times! He had known, all that time ago, that were young Teclis to leave the Tower without it, he would die and events would turn out far darker. Without it, this battle would not be taking place - as they would all have been dead already. He still knew it was the right action. But when the ambitious Herulach had discovered the loss of the War-crown, he had turned it into a great weapon against his once-mentor and now rival for power with the destruction of poor Cyeos' mind. Look at Belannaer! he had said. Look at this thief-Loremaster who pilfers our treasures! And so now, having lost all the power and influence he had ever had, he had been sent here to lose his life as well with a single group of the Swordmasters. Besides him Seridan nodded gravely. The veteran captain spun his twin blades in intricate arcs before him, daring the dark elves to appear. Around two of them, the rest of the elves stood, clad in long ithilmar mail coats and grasping their fine greatswords cautiously, waiting for the dark elves. And there they came, howling towards them, brandishing sword axe both, long scaled cloaks banner-like behind them. The Swordmasters moved to meet them, and steel flew. Several came at Belannaer, and the Loremaster gestured, invoking a power he abhorred with all his soul. Flames sparked from his hand and raced down it into a dark elf, snuffing out his life instantly with ease. Sickening. Seridan sprang into the main mob, twin swords flying gracefully. The shorter sword parried with ease as the longer tore clean kills through throat and chest. Another broke free and sprang at Belannaer, and the old Loremaster was too startled to react with a spell. He jerked his silver blade up, and watched with shock as the dark elf ran onto it. The force of the impact jarred the sword clear from Belannaer's hands. The dark elf staggered onwards, and Belannaer was repulsed by the bloody spittle and the crazed look of the dying elf's face. The dark elf rose his axe and lowered. A weak blow from the last strength he possessed - but still enough to strike deep into Belannaer. Blood flowed over the horrified mage's robes, staining them deeply. He still had enough presence of mind to wrench the sword free of the corpse, and enough strength of mind to keep on his feet. About half the Swordmasters were dead or dying now, and the rest traded blows with a different foe, scantily clad but raging Witch-elves. Their twin scimitars drooled poison and they attacked with frenzied abandon. They reminded Belannaer of nothing so much as an orgy of blood. Seridan stood still, blades tearing through bared flesh. He showed no sign of discomfort, so perfect was his concentration. He was a killing machine. Belannaer shifted his sword and joined him, preparing again the repulsive spells that would obliterate his opponents' souls and set fire to their minds. He would do what he must do.
Arhaindir Moonhand readied his longbow. His small force clustered around him, clad in the blue and red of Nagarythe or the green and white of Avelorn. He could see his captains - Cedwyn Brighteye, gruff and calm, the eternal veteran and master archer; the spears of Telimis the great-hearted and brave; and his wife Isil'wen, Noble- Born of Avelorn. Though she was not really a captain - her spirit was easily a match for his own. As it should be, he reminded himself with an inward smile, reminding himself as he always did before the battles of happier moments so that should he die he would go to Morai-Heg thinking only of the good moments of his life. He recalled the dark elf raid a scant twenty years ago. He'd gone to Avelorn to pursue a band of raiders who had fled into the forests. His men had found them and hewn him down so easily, but on the way home he chose, on a whim, to stop at the Evercourt to rest for the night. And what a good decision it had been! There he had met the fair lady, and love had soon sparked. She'd taught him to look past the darkness in his soul, to become a better elf. In exchange he had left his home, married her a scant five years later. And their beautiful daughter appeared soon, his dear Si'anelle. They were pleasant memories indeed. His hands felt the smooth wood of his great bow. He was a master shot, and proficient enough with his mage-wrought blade. He would lead the small force that remained of his household, and they would do what damage they could. His force had been held back from the initial charge as a small force to harass the dark elven lines. Two forces of archers - his own highly trained skirmishers and Isil'wen's marksmen - and one force of spears. He could only hope it was enough to make a difference. He could see from the concealed position the sights of the battle. Elf spearmen fought in vicious swirling melees, and blood stained the entire vista. The cries of the dying and the cries of pain or victory formed themselves in Arhaindir's ears into some unholy cacophony. He turned his head as his leather-gloved hands took one arrow and set it in place on his bow. "Time to move," he whispered, and the elves prepared. How many would die this day? Looking over the course of the battle, the enraged dark elves pouring through the valiant high elven defenses, he wondered whether he should be wondering how many would survive this day. And Arhaindir's elves broke from their cover. At a sprint they moved forward, weapons held ready. Arhaindir's skirmishers were at the fore, bows held parallel to the ground, arrows nocked. A dark elf sprang at them, his barbed blade smeared with the blood of the fallen. Arhaindir whipped his bow around and released his arrow swiftly. The shaft struck the druchii in the chest and punched directly through, sending him toppling backwards. Arhaindir paid him no more mind and swiftly aimed another arrow. The dark elf was followed by more. Clambering over the corpses of a group of Prince Ikarus' Felix Guard, dark elves flung themselves at Moonhand. His elves released their shafts, sending several on to the pile, their blood to mix with those they had slain. The rest came into melee with the skirmishers. Arhaindir dropped his greatbow and tore free the rune-carved ilthilmar longsword. The skirmishers fell back, blades weaving dexterously in defense. And then they melted away, through the lines of Telimis' spears, and the dark elves were confronted with a barrier of bristling silver spear-tips. They charged in, and the air was filled with blood and battle. Arhaindir saw Telimis fall. The great-hearted elf's spear was knocked from his hands, and the dark elves swarmed over him. Swords rose and fell swiftly, and Arhaindir gave a cry of anguish as his friend was slaughtered. Brandishing his blade, he ran in towards the corpse. And he was aware of the presence of more dark elves. Many more than the small group he had lured in. An entire regiment of dark elves was tearing at them, and they were outnumbered maybe three to one, maybe more. With horror he could see Isil'wen trying to fend off attacks from vicious Black Guard, Malekith's private soldiers with her long hunting knife. She was not skilled in combat initially, and a knife was a poor weapon against a halberd. Moonhand flung himself on to the Black Guardsman. His blade flew with the skills he had picked up fighting at Tor Yvresse and Lothern during this long war. He knew how dark elves fought, and now unleashed all his experience in a deadly whirlwind of sword-blows. The Black Guardsman fell, and Arhaindir was at Isil'wen's side. "It's a good thing I got to you in time," he said, blade fending off attacks. Isil'wen turned to face Arhaindir, mouth opened. For an instant he thought she was about to say something, but he realized the truth when he saw the agony on her face, the blood speckling her lips, and the barbed halberd- head embedded deep in her side. The halberd came out, and Isil'wen fell. And Arhaindir screamed, a primal shriek of rage and loss and pure anguish. Tears ran down his grimacing face as he took the longsword in both hands. "Die, you druchii bastards!" he wept, swinging his sword like a berserker, charging into the midst of the Black Guard, the members of the Witch-King's personal army. He cut down about twenty of them before a halberd caught his arm, tearing through it so that it tore a huge chunk of flesh off and forced Arhaindir to drop the blade. He could hardly see, the tears were so thick, but he drew with his left hand his own dagger and waved it, daring the Black Guard to come on. They formed a circle around him, cautious now of this brave and deadly fool, advancing slowly. It took a long time for Moonhand to die. But when he did, covered with wounds grievous enough to fell any three elves, his knife broken but smeared with the blood of his foes, his blood running into the mud he had churned up, the light leaving his eyes, he whispered two final words. The first was "Isil'wen." The second was "Si'anelle."
And in the middle of the chaos, in a world that was parallel to and separate from where the elves fought and Arhaindir Moonhand had just breathed his last, the mage Teclis still battled with the immeasurable might of Malekith, the Witch-King. His every muscle was tensed as he strained, but try as he could the sheer power of the dark elf was beyond reckoning. There was no way that he could resist. And when he fell, as fall he must, Malekith would be free to dedicate his entire attention to the battle. And all the High Elves would die then. Calarion, Ikarus, Tyrion, Alarielle, Belannaer, all of them. There was only him left. Only he, left against the strength of the lord of the dark elves. And it was too much. His concentration snapped, like a tense harp-string which has suddenly been slit. Malekith's mind was all over his immediately, and the end was upon him. But new supplies of strength flowed into his body. Teclis, he heard. Use the staff. Tyrion's voice. And the new might of his brother's mind, strengthened after his saving of the Everqueen and his resurrection, poured into him, revitalizing him. With a thought, he encapsulated Malekith's mind in a ball of light, flung back his enemy's attack. Then he felt out the magical emanations of his staff, as they flowed into this world. It gave him strength. Maybe it could restore the strength of his mind as well. And it could. Linked in mind now, the full willpower of one who had died and returned, and the force of will of the great mage, united. Malekith's own energies shrank back, aware of its sudden vulnerability. But together the brothers returned the assault, a blast of pure white that tore through the winds of magic after Malekith's fleeing presence, intent on blasting the dark one out of existence at last.
Malekith's mind returned to his body. He could feel again, as he always had been able to feel, the pain of his scars, the burning fires of Asuryan, as he always would feel. And for the first time in five thousand years, the Witch-King was afraid. For he had found at last his two-faced man, as Khaine had promised. For the twin brothers were as one mind, one soul, in two bodies. The peerless warrior and the peerless mage. And there was no way he could ever defeat them. For a month he had felt the sensation of the war somehow slipping from his grasp. The muster, the continued inability of his agents to find Alarielle or the war-crown (and how he cursed that short-sightedness now!), the report of Mortharor's death and the foiling of the attack on Lothern. The white bolt of pure magic manifested itself in front of Malekith's chariot, and the ancient elf reached twisted fingers to a ring he wore. A simple spell, and he would be far away from here. Then his chariot exploded in white flames.
A massive fireball mushroomed into the sky, a cloud of white flame, blinding the eyes of all who saw it, coming from the centre of the dark elven ranks. Malekith, the elves said with despair or amazed joy on their lips. The Witch-King, scourge of the high elves for six thousand years, was dead. Tyrion's blade was doused in dark elven blood, but he saw the explosion and the sudden loss of morale of the dark elves. And somehow he knew what had happened, had the image of a white fireball and of his mind joining with Teclis'. He twitched his knees and Malhandir responded immediately. He knew now that there was a chance. Malhandir brought him through the ranks of the dark elves, a lone warrior pressing to hold their advantage. Sunfang cleft through dark elves, through scaled monstrosities and bat-winged harpies. And then he found himself confronting the heart of the army, the huge bannerpole with the skull and arrow emblazoned upon it. The best warriors of the dark elves moved forward to intercept them. But compared to Vuthil, they were mere amateurs. Tyrion's golden blade hewed them down with ease, and Malhandir trampled them into the ground. Malhandir reared, and with a mighty blow Tyrion struck the bannerpole and cleft clean through it. The black oak splintered, the skull and star tumbled slowly, washed by the morning light. It struck the ground heavily amidst cries of rage and despair. Tyrion urged Malhandir onwards. Sunfang cleft a path to the fallen banner, and Malhandir trampled the standard into the ground.
Ikarus discarded his shield and grasped his long blade in both hands. Opposite him, the dark elf grimaced wickedly, savouring the moment of victory. "And now I will be Kaeul, slayer of the great Prince Ikarus!" the dark elf jeered. Ikarus laughed. "You want my head?" He gestured. "Come get it." But he spoke with confidence he did not feel. His concentration was broken with the agony of the face wound, and he would make mistakes now, mistakes which Kaeul would be quick to capitalize upon. And if Kaeul did not kill him, then another of this numberless tide would. "Caledor!" he roared, and sprinted towards the dark elf, blade held low behind him. "Caledor and Ulthuan!" Their blades crashed together with terrible force. Ikarus' blade flew up in a vicious arc to over his shoulder, and Kaeul parried in mid-swing the blow that would have opened his gut. Ikarus disengaged, pulled his blade back over his head and slashed, but the dark elf set his feet and caught it up high. Their blades locked, and Ikarus strained to throw back the dark elf. But Kaeul was stronger, and he sent Ikarus tumbling back on to the torn-up turf. He followed immediately, trying to kill Ikarus quickly. But the Caledorian was a canny warrior. He rolled swiftly out of the way, hooking one leg between Kaeul's, causing the dark elf to fall with an oath. And then Ikarus used the impetus of his roll to come back to his feet. They met each other again, Kaeul on his knees and Ikarus standing. Ikarus' blade hammered down, raining impassioned blows upon the dark elf, while Kaeul's blade frantically tried for defense of some sort. But Kaeul was slowly working his way back up to his feet, while Ikarus' arms tired. Then the white fireball rose into the sky, and the huge black and purple standard toppled, and Kaeul froze from shock. His final error. Ikarus' blade caught him square on the crest of his ornate bat-winged helm, sending the dark elf back and tearing the wing off. Then Ikarus' foot snapped forward and caught the Kaeul in the gut. The impact forced Kaeul back again. Ikarus' next blow struck the dark elf under one armpit, sheer momentum making it cleave onward through black plate. The ilthilmar blade burned a bright red as it cleft through the druchii. Then it was flying out the other side, and Kaeul's severed upper torso landed on the ground with a wet splat next to the rest of the body. Ikarus strode off, ignoring the corpse.
Ethendir's horse reared and the elf Prince slashed a quick blow at the red- plated chaos warrior, tearing through an exposed throat. The left flank was not holding up well. Thaindal of Tiranoc, their commander, was dead, and the bestial fiends and plated monsters seemed to be immune to any damage that the horse-people could throw at them. Their spirit was waning. And the messages he received from the other parts of the battle showed a similar state of affairs reigned. Slowly, the high elves were being defeated. He could see to his left the two mages of Thaindal's household, the brother and sister Dairsyn and Alaesur, galloping through the carnage, flames springing from their fingertips, tearing into the dark elves. He smiled grimly. Those two were far more competent then they had a right to be. But they were not enough to win a battle. That he would have to do - on this flank, at least. His eyes picked out a massive figure, an immense monstrosity of plates and spikes and chains. Swinging a greatsword that might weigh as much as Ethendir himself. He turned his horse towards it, seized a broken shaft of a lance from the ground, and set off at a gallop. Around him, the Ellyrian and Tiranoc elves fought valiantly to clear him a path through the battle. "Chaos fiend!" he howled, his voice carrying across to the monster. It turned, raising the sword as the single crazed horseman bore down upon it. The lance struck it then, in a clear spot at the side of the breastplate. With the force and weight of the charge behind it, it blasted through the plate and in a spray of blood sunk deep into the chaos lord's chest. But somehow the monster did not fall. The chaos lord rose up ponderously, and Ethendir could see that he had gravely wounded it, but still he hefted his immense sword and faced the elf defiantly. "Elf," the chaos lord boomed in an inhuman, warped voice. "Die." And then they charged at each other, blades flying. Ethendir's light sword hit the plate armor with all the force he could muster and simply bounced off. The greatsword struck the horse with impossible strength, killing it instantly. Down Ethendir went, and he came back to his feet groggily. The chaos lord eyed him. "Die," it said again, and Ethendir was afraid. They lunged at each other, and Ethendir abandoned any attempt to parry the sword. He flung himself beneath it, and with a desperate prayer to Kurnous struck out. His sword struck the edge of the lance, and drove it deeper into the body of the chaos lord. More blood wheezed out. They broke back and eyed each other again. Then the chaos lord toppled. Cheers came from the high elves, a chorus of new hope. And Ethendir staggered away slowly to find himself another horse, as the elves pressed on with new strength.
Calarion stood in the middle of a pile of corpses, soaked in blood. Many were dark elves. Many were not. And the two remaining members of his bodyguard stood by him as well, in similar shape. Tarran Angedhel's armour was torn and blood ran from his leg. Alar Silverhand's right arm hung limply and he wielded his blade with his left. But the tide of the battle had changed. The dark elves were falling back, demoralized and dispirited by the death of their leader and the fall of their standard. And now the gold lightning of Tyrion tore through their ranks, and the white lightning of the mage Teclis hammered into their ranks again and again. "Onward!" Calarion cried, and his companions - the two knights and a small band of spearmen - charged onwards, crying the names of their land and their leader. One of the spearmen held the book and blade banner, and it waved proudly as the final remnants of Tarthalion's army fought onwards. Their way was paved with blood at every step, and one by one the last spearmen fell, but for every one who fell the dark elves dropped back further and further, and more of their corpses littered the ground. And it was the same everywhere. Against all the odds, the high elves were winning. Had Malekith been alive, his sheer presence would have brought the victory back to the dark elves. Had Mortharor been alive, his skilled strategies would doubtlessly have defeated the high elves. But Malekith had died in the fireball, and Calarion himself had run Mortharor through. And now, leaderless, spiritless, the dark elves were dying in their swarms. Calarion's blade led the way, with Tarran and Alar a step behind to his sides. They ran down the dark elves, as did the rest of the great army. Almost as one, the great army of dark elves finally through down their arms and fled the field. And as one, the victorious high elves swept after them, engulfing them, running them down. Few dark elves survived. Calarion's spirits were high for the first time in months, since Tarthalion's death. He had achieved the goal his father had died for, and now surely it was all over. Then a small force of dark elves appeared, the Black Guard of Naggarond. They still fought on, and they plunged in towards Calarion's banner. The small but veteran band of spears and blades fought back against the elite warriors of the Witch-King, cutting them down one by one. Calarion met their leader in the middle of the field, a vicious warrior soaked in elf blood. Their blades flashed once, and the dark elf fell, cleft in twain. Then something heavy struck the prince on the side of his head. Blood soaking his golden hair, he fell, and the world turned black as the Black Guard rushed forwards.
And the slaughter was over. Tyrion looked around the expanses of Finuval Plain, the isolated valley that would be remembered forever. He could see no trace of the grass, so totally covered was it by corpses and blood. He moved as in shock. All about him, high elves moved around, looking for their friends, weeping quietly over corpses. Several bodies of heroes had been recovered, and many more heroes walked still. Tyrion chuckled. They were all heroes. Every high elf that had fought that day was a hero. And their deeds would never be forgotten. He could see several of the commanders. Over to his left he could see Ethendir, and cheers greeted his presence as the tale of his stand against the chaos lord spread. And Thaindal's corpse slumped over the back of the Ellyrian's horse, his gray hair soaked with blood. There was Ikarus, the great general, the one who had fought valiantly to get to this place, who had defeated one of Malekith's generals in hand-to- hand combat, his flame-red armour muddied and bloodied, but still proud. And there was another corpse, that of Arhaindir Moonhand. The survivors of his small force, a scant score of elves led by the archer Cedwyn Brighteye and the young she-elf Nimine Starbrow, of whom all attested to her courage when she held together Telimis the Brave's spear-wielding elves in the face of Witch Elves, spoke of Arhaindir's heroic last stand, and all agreed he was truly a great hero. Belannaer, Loremaster of Hoeth, the old elf still strong and proud amidst his swordmasters. His magic had been instrumental in holding the central lines. And there was the sword and book still flying triumphantly with ten spearmen still under it, and the two elf knights Tarran Angedhel and Alar Silverhand supporting the unconscious form of Prince Calarion. They had defended his body against the Black Guard, a foe of ruthlessness and skill, and saved their lord's life. Teclis, his brother, leant on his staff, exhausted. A true hero of the battle, for the elves were already beginning to speak of him in awed voices, comparing him to Caledor Dragon-Tamer of old. And finally his eyes came to rest on the white-robed she-elf picking her way wearily through the host of corpses, surrounded by bloodied elf maidens, supported by Naideth Morningstar, looking for him. Alarielle. He flung himself off Malhandir and sprinted towards her, a great and weary form in gold plate. She turned and saw him, and her eyes lit up. And then they were in each other's arms, lips firmly pressed together, delighting in the simple joy of each other's life. They broke off the kiss, and Tyrion turned to face the elves, still holding Alarielle around the waist. Sunfang gleamed in the now midday light as he drove it high into the air. "Ulthuan!" he cried. "Ulthuan!" And his cry was echoed by the victors of the great battle, as swords, spears, axes, bows, or fists were brandished. "Ulthuan!" they roared. "Ulthuan!"