Chapter VI: Fire and Broadswords
Quickly overcoming their shock, Mordae and Celebdraug did their best to cover one another's wounds, then grabbed their weapons and bolted from the armory, heading for the Great Hall.
Just as they entered the first corridor, however, the sound of fast approaching footsteps reached their ears, and the two elves flattened themselves against the corner of a turn in the hallway, swords drawn and at the ready. They waited a moment, and then, two black uniformed Drow hurried around the edge of the wall, their own glittering swords drawn.
Mordae stepped out in front of them and swung hard, surprising the two soldiers. He removed the head of the dark elf closest to himself and his cousin, then whirled and engaged the other. Celebdraug moved quickly behind him, throwing knife in one hand, broadsword in the other, and swept around the corner.
She nearly stopped in surprise and anger as she recognized the advisor, the one Mordae had insisted was Drow, in between two more black clothed soldiers. He had removed his disguise, but remained similar looking, save the pointed ears, dark skin, and glowing eyes. Those eyes met hers as she whipped her hand with the knife back and hurled it into one of his escorts, and a dark voice filled her head.
We meet again, infidel. Now I may kill you without the primitives interfering.
The advisor raised his hand and fired a tongue of dark flame at Celebdraug, who ducked the swing of the other soldier, then raised her own hand and called the fire to her. She struggled for a moment against the evil contained in it, but overcame it with a quick prayer to Illuvitar, the provider of her abilities.
The fire came together at a point in her palm, and she reveled in the feeling of power that came with it. Inhaling, Celebdraug drew yet more power to her, and then hurled it back at the advisor in a storm of red and white flame.
The escort who had just attacked her was hurled back, flaming, into the wall behind the advisor, who looked shocked, but struggled against the inferno. He reached out, parting the flame, then with a crack, vanished in a plume of dark smoke, only to reappear behind Mordae, who was battling with the surviving Drow. Celebdraug heard an evil laugh echo in her mind, and the Drow mage/advisor began sprinting down the hallway, away from the two Noldor.
Mordae nearly turned his head as the man passed, but thought against it as he whirled his sword up to block his opponent's blade. The Drow spun and swung low, but Mordae caught the dark-elf warrior's arm and spun him back the other direction, striking his victim in the chin with the hilt of his sword.
Releasing his grip on the soldier's arm, Mordae grabbed the man's throat instead and lifted him a half a meter in the air, pressing him against the wall. With a twirl of his shining sword, Mordae stabbed into the opening in the Drow's armor just above his gut. He let the body fall, and after confirming his opponent was dead, turned to Celebdraug.
Where did he go? he asked.
Without answering, Celebdraug sprinted off after the advisor, Mordae close on her heels.
The advisor came in sight just as they rounded the final corner of the corridor where it met the outer wall. Mordae, who had passed Celebdraug by a meter or so, was about to unsling his bow when he stopped short.
"Agarwaen Udun!" Celebdraug cried as she skidded into his back.
Mordae was barely shaken; rather, he pointed over the fleeing Drow's head out into the clearing around the Venyarohirrim capitol. The glare of thousands of orc torches reflected off his mìthril gloved hand.
"That's not good," Celebdraug said with a weak smile.
Mordae shook his head, not taking his eyes off the horde that approached.
"Not good at all," he replied.
The fleeing Drow, Maneva Mornië, founder and leader of the Remnant, the combined army of the Drow, vampires, lychens, and orcs, looked over his shoulder as he exited the hallway. His pursuit, whatever they were, had stopped. He counted himself blessed; the warriors, which he had decided were High Elves, possibly even the Noldor which he had heard so much about, had made quick work of the elite guards which had moments ago been escorting him. Mornië shuddered as he recalled his own weapon, fire, being turned against him. He definitely did not want to wait around and see if his assailants had any other tricks that they were capable of.
He gazed out into the sea of orcs, trolls, and uruk-hai, the orc elites, awaiting his signal to charge into the city. He definitely did not want to stay.
Mornië raised his right hand and called up a ball of shimmering black flame, making a glaring contrast against the white of the capitol city. He held it up until a moment later, three bats fluttered to him from the rear of the army. The bats flew in a quick circle, then, with a pop, transformed into men with long, flowing, black hair and blood red capes. The two smaller wore shining black armor with a red elven 'r' rune1 emblazoned on it, while the one in the center had golden runes. That man smiled, revealing two long, white fangs. Vampires.
The center vampire saluted crisply and spoke, his voice a hissing rasp, "You reqvesssted pickup, Sssir?"
Mornië returned the salute slightly, "'tis about time, I was beginning to wonder if thou had decided to abandon me here, Vrayon."
The vampire leered, "I vould never dream of it, sssir."
"Of course not. If thee would?"
"Sssorry. Right avay, sssir."
Vrayon, the head general of the vampire army, held out a clawed hand toward Mornië. A red mist swirled from his palm, enveloping the Drow, who disappeared with a soft popping noise, only to reappear at the rear of the army.
He shook his head to clear it, feeling dazed, and muttered to the other three generals who had stood awaiting him, "I will never get used to that."
They laughed politely and bowed, Mornië acknowledging them with a curt nod.
Turdú, the Drow general and second-in-command of the four combined armies, stepped forward. His appearance was similar to Mornië's, with the same dark purple skin, though Turdú was slightly taller. Despite the height, he was still not as imposing as his commander.
He spoke, his voice low and smooth, "We have done as thou hast commanded, my lord. We have begun firing into the city. Our assassin slew the infidels' leader as well, though the front lines report seeing his body hurled from the wall."
Grishnákh, the orc's general, growled, his yellow eyes glowing on his sickly red and black-splotched skin. "Casualties are of no consequence."
Turdú turned slowly to the orc, rising to his full six and a half foot height. "Drow, unlike thy soldiers, are far more than brainless scourge."
The final general, Garulf, the commander of the lychens, held up his hand. He stood a little taller than six feet, but the Drow stopped anyway. The lychen appeared similar to a human, save for the solid blood-red eyes. His voice was harsh, with a hint of an animal-like growl behind it.
"We cannot let petty disputes hinder our progress," he chided the two arguing generals.
Turdú looked down smugly, "Yes, not like thou and the vampire. The two of thee get along so well," he said with a hint of sarcasm in his calm voice.
Mornië was about to comment when he was startled by a pop as Vrayon dropped lightly to the ground beside them. He had a large cut across his face, but no blood flowed from it; rather, it seemed to be naught but an empty chasm.
"Fiesssty little ratsss," he hissed to himself. Looking up suddenly, as though just noticing the others, Vrayon smiled.
"Ze Drow cannot shoot forever, my lord. You may vant to order ze troopsss to charge, no?"
Mornië returned the smile, "Ah yes, thank you. At least one of my generals is on task."
He turned to Grishnákh and nodded.
The orc growled at Vrayon, then threw back his head and roared to the troops in the black speech. His bellow echoed ominously, growing in volume as his kin took up his cry and surged forward, prepared to deal out death to all who stood in their path.
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