The battle of magics was ended.
The battle of swords was about to begin.
A lone rider burst through the Calvan ranks, pushing all aside in his blind fury. Mitchell charged across the field, his great shield held high to protect against attacks from the ledge, and his spear level, leading him unmistakably toward his prey. Arrows cracked into his shield and whistled all about him, but he would not be deterred. His eyes saw nothing other than his quarry, his rage and frustration leading him down a narrow tunnel toward this man who had disrupted all of his plans.
By the time Arien realized the identity and intent of the rider, he knew it was too late to save Del. Angered at his failure to react, he spurred his stallion into motion and the elven charge began.
Rallied only by the threats of Ungden and their commanders, the Calvan army, hesitant and unsure, answered the elven assault.
Mitchell reared up alongside his helpless enemy, dipping the tip of his spear just above Del’s head. “Now you die,” he calmly, callously stated, a victory smile stamped upon his face. He raised his weapon for the death plunge.
Del’s eyes fixed upon the wicked tip of the spearhead, its image ringing unnaturally clear in the field of his blurred vision like the balancing point of his consciousness. Dazed and slipping from reality, he could not truly appreciate that he was indeed about to die.
Still, even as he fainted away, somewhere in the back of his mind he understood a sensation of relief when he saw the blur that was the white mare’s hind leg smashing into Mitchell’s side.
Viewing the whole scene from the ledge, and hardly understanding the true nature of the white mare, Sylvia could hardly believe that this beast had come to the rescue.
Then the battle was joined and her joy left her, for even with all that had transpired, the Calvans badly outnumbered the elves. The sorceries had been played out; this clash was now solely sword against sword. And in that context, with no more tricks to spring, the elven cause seemed hopeless.
“Pick your shots carefully,” Sylvia told her companions. “We haven’t an arrow to waste.”
One of the other archers, a young maiden with eyes too pure to be witnessing such carnage, walked over to her. “Lady Sylvia,” she said. “Arien declared me message bearer to those that departed the city. I await your word on how I should proceed.”
Sylvia turned back to the field. Already the sheer number of Calvans had created a distinct advantage. A portion of Ungden’s army had swung around the elven line and Arien’s warriors found themselves flanked on three sides and were being driven back toward the drop to Blackemara.
“Go then, now,” Sylvia instructed the maiden. “Find our brothers and sisters in the mountains and tell them not to forget us or the noble cause we undertook that they might live freely.”
The maiden began to weep.
“Be at ease,” Sylvia assured her. “Take comfort the knowledge that all who died here this morn accepted their fate willingly.
“Any who wish to leave may go now,” Sylvia said to all the others on the ledge. “Those of us who remain behind shall pass no judgment upon you, and of you, all we shall ask is that you do not forget us.”
But the elves truly believed in their cause, and the maiden Arien had appointed as messenger departed alone.
Backed into a corner, the elves fought with unbelievable fury and many Calvans were cut down. Fahwayn rang again and again, and soon the Calvan troops backed away whenever Arien-Deathbringer, they called him-moved toward them.
Amidst all the confusion, the white mare reared up on her hind legs over Del’s body and shrieked an unearthly howl that scraped the marrow of even the sturdiest warriors, and from that moment neither man nor elf dared approach her or the man she protected.
Still more Calvan warriors fell, but fatigue and sheer numbers played more and more against the elves as the minutes of unrelenting battle passed. Fresh Calvans pressed in on their weary foes, and elven blood mixed with the blood of the humans on the scarred grass of Mountaingate, and elven screams of pain and death soon rivaled those of the Calvans.
The archers on the ledge had little to offer their brothers on the field now, and Arien recognized that the battle neared an abrupt end. The Calvans continued to avoid him wherever they could, allowing him virtually free movement on the field, and that maneuverability offered him one desperate flicker of hope. Back toward the far end of the field sat Ungden, surrounded by two seemingly impregnable rings of guardsmen. With Thalasi gone, and Mitchell and Reinheiser out of the battle, only the fear of the Overlord’s wrath kept many of the Calvan soldiers committed to the fight.
Nearly blind with rage, Arien bolted at the Usurper and was promptly intercepted by two of Ungden’s outer defensive line. And behind them, two others from the inner ring stood at the ready should Arien, against all odds, force his way through. The remaining elite guardsmen held their posts, alert for any further attempts.
Fury drove all the weariness from Arien’s muscles and his sword work was nothing short of magnificent. Yet these were the Warders of the White Walls that he faced, the finest warriors that Calva had to offer, and though none of them could have withstood his assault alone, two proved more than his equal. Every time he launched Fahwayn into a deadly thrust at one of his opponents, a well-aimed counter by the other forced him to retreat and parry. As the Warders grew accustomed to the feints and dodges of the Eldar, they had little trouble keeping him almost exclusively on the defensive.
Before long the frustration of his ineffectiveness tempered the rage that had given Arien strength. He was tiring now, and making mistakes that he knew would eventually cost him his life.
He lunged desperately, but the flashing speed wasn’t there, and his intended target deflected Fahwayn aside while the other Warder drove his sword at the opening in Arien’s defenses. The Eldar felt the cold tip bite at his chest and he recoiled instinctively, though he knew it was too late.
Yet he still lived.
Blood trickled from a wound just below his breast, but the sword did not puncture him deeply, as if something had stayed the Warder’s hand. With Fahwayn now on guard before him, Arien studied his opponents, and saw respect in their eyes rather than blood lust. “You could have finished me,” he said to the Warder.
“Nay, you were the quicker,” came the reply.
“You had me dead,” Arien insisted. “Yet you held. You have no heart for this fight.”
In rebuttal, the Warder swung mightily, Arien easily deflecting the blow. “I’ll have the Usurper’s worthless head!” the elf-lord proclaimed.
“That we cannot allow,” the Warder said, but his voice was unconvincing and Arien took confidence in his beliefs that the Warders held Ungden in contempt.
Then a horn blew, and so clear and strong was its note that for a moment the fighting stopped and all heads turned toward Avalon. There, at the edge of the field by the magical wood, hovered Calamus, winged lord of horses, and atop him, dressed in shining mail, sat Belexus, an ivory horn pressed to his lips and a huge sword raised triumphantly. Below him, emerging from the wood, straight-backed and proud on mighty steeds, came the Rangers of Avalon, swords bared and faces grim.
Barely two score strong, yet preceded by a whispered reputation of ferocity that was the meat of valorous tales throughout the taverns of all Aielle, they struck a chord of fear in the hearts of Calvan and Illuman alike.
For neither side understood the purpose that brought the rangers to the field of battle this morn, or could guess whose cause this legendary order would champion.
“What crimes huv ye done by the Children o’ the Moon?” Belexus cried, answering that question immediately. “Ware me sword, Ungden. Throne-stealing murderer, now ye get yer due!” And on came the rangers.
Calamus, soaring on mighty wings, quickly outdistanced the other horses, and from his high vantage point, Belexus spotted Arien and understood at once the elf-lord’s desperate attempt.