Milai Gorgoroth Story
The sky was black and cold; the icy wind wound like a serpent’s coil thrashing amongst the rocks. The slope was steep and, in parts, treacherous. But Milai’s thoughts were elsewhere. What did the vision mean? The Norseman appeared so confident – certain of his task.
“Tell me again, Garth, what was Perion’s message?” She had heard it many times but it still made only partial sense.
“Perion leadeth his people across Gorgoroth. He hast need of strength in the approaching wars. Thor and Odin visit him; they pleadeth for unification of all races for good to defeat enemies that invade the land. He hast been told to strike out at the Dark Queen – she hast something of great import to the Gods. Perion wouldst thou entreat thy people to aid him. As thy knowest, they are broken and oft fight one another. Thy race leaveth, o’er the sea, believing thou dead. Thou must hold a counsel, as is thy right, to bring thy folk to battle.”
Doubt cast its shadow over Milai’s heart since the first night she had the dream, soon after the Party found Cran’s stair…
The edge of a forest transformed abruptly into wide expanse of open steppe across which Milai flew. Her strong grey beak pointed the way and her silky black wings carried her sleek dark torso. Thick, wiry grass that grew between dark grey lumps of rock bent easily under the pressure of the wind – wind that bore Milai effortlessly. Sporadic gorse and stunted hawthorn punctuated the land below. The sky was full of threatening, swirling clouds, which became increasingly dark close to the distant horizon and forbade a higher traverse. Bodies lay all around, flattening the grass and breaking the movement of the wind so that it moaned. Blood mingled and collected in pools where the bare rock was exposed to the elements. Elves, humans, dwarves stuck with arrows and polearms, rent by wickedly sharpened and serrated blades, and smashed by all manner of weaponry favoured by giants – boulders, clubs, morning stars and maces – were sown across the steppe by some unseen farmer of souls.
Sat on a lump of granite, leaning heavily on a bloodied and notched battle-axe, was a Norse warrior, dressed in furs beneath which strips of metal were occasionally visible. His winged helmet lay at his feet, dented and cracked. A vast circular shield, that bore the marks of recent combat, rested against the warrior’s shoulder and swayed randomly in the wind. His abundant, blonde hair was only constrained by occasional plaits, woven with silver and gold, which adorned his head and beard. His deep blue eyes stared fixedly at a shallow puddle of rainwater and blood, occupying a depression in the granite slab at his feet. The grass beat out a chaotic hiss against his winter, fur-lined boots. He shivered.
“So it begins as it was foretold,” the words rasped in his parched throat, almost inaudible in the wind, “but I have so much more to offer.” He looked up, briefly gazing at the horizon before staring at the puddle once again. “Here we have taken the first blow? The next will be Asgard? No matter, it is obvious now. It was all about the Prime; have we done enough? Was the last throw of the dice sufficient?”
His head lifted again and Milai saw that he had been crying – red eyes turned into the breeze. “I should have listened – why was I so proud?”
Another voice, stronger and more confident came from behind the elf, “You lost, Odin, the time you lifted your gaze from the Mage and you continue to lose now. We no longer guess your will; it is obvious. Was he so much a fool to incur your wrath? Did he deserve your admonishment or should you have rewarded him for destroying one of Hell’s creatures? Do you still ask those questions? Give up Father you know we prevail. A shadow passed across Milai’s gaze as if a cloud blown by fierce wind passed across the sun.
“You have had plenty to say Loki and played many cards, but this is not your time either and the battle has only just begun.” The retort was said without much confidence.
“Ahhh, they fail to listen - the enemies of your scant followers rule the land, burning the good before images of our dark sister; I will have the last laugh.”
“There is still hope.”
“Ha! You have been absent for too long Odin; others have taken your place…No-one is left to fight for the glories of Valhalla and Asgard anymore. Fenris has rent those fools willing to defend your pathetic dominion already .” His long, shrouded arms stretched out as if to embrace the land.
“The valkyries have cause to work hard it is true, but I have no less einherjar for that! Beware Loki, I will not be defeated yet; so, chain up your pet and make rest your giant kind for the time of battle is not now! My son Heimdall soundeth not his horn, though we battle r thy kin often.” The sun broke through the clouds, illuminating Odin and penetrating the dark cloud that is Loki.
“The time is at hand Odin. Your son, born of nine, from the sea on the earthly prime, will see his end soon enough.”
“He looks forwards to skewering you Loki!” And with that Odin swung wildly at the shadows as they break before the increasing light.
Milai felt that she saw the same image but from further away and in a different time. In the distance, a young man stood on a hill illuminated by a ray of sunlight that broke through the otherwise dense, low cloud overhead. It was cold and the ground was soft. Steam rose from a horse’s back, which stood close by. He was dressed in leather armour, studded with metal plates some supporting fierce-looking points. Across his shoulders was an ermine cloak, hood thrown back to reveal a young, handsome face and sharp blue eyes. His face was surrounded by unkempt blonde hair. He was Norse but was clean-shaven. Behind him was a long line of warriors on horseback, followed by rank upon rank of women, children and all the baggage of life. A knight approached.
“My Lord, there is the Lovyon and yonder the Caladhon Mountains. The marsh slowed us little – for which we have much to thank you . Perhaps it is time…”
“Yes, Balar, summon the Guard; I have need of strong arms and good counsel.”
A nomad-style camp spread widely across the rolling downland. At its centre, surrounded by guards was the young Norse warrior – Odin’s double in youth – who addressed the crowd of warriors sitting in a semi-circle before him.
“Countrymen, we have a mighty challenge before us – one that Thor would relish!” Cheers and shouts of “Let us meet it!” and “Bring the Valkyrie!” rose from the throng.
“…I know that many have wondered why we abandoned our sacred homes in pursuit of such a dangerous goal, I would assure them that the counsel of Odin remains the same: Gos is a fruitless venture, Sutur will fall , the last bastions of the Old Ages fall before the massing foe. We must abandon what we once held to be impregnable, old alliances must be sacrificed for the greater good…” a silence descended as the warrior spoke, “and the time has come to take the battle to the heart of the enemy!” Huge cheers rose to meet the sound of the rattling of weapons and pounding of shields.
“But the way ahead is shrouded in mystery and chaos.” The noise died down. “I must take my bravest warriors and seek out the hiding place of the Dark Queen; the rest will make a fortress there.” He pointed to the mountains that rose dramatically out of the ground, framed by the golden sunlight forming a halo on the highest peak. “You know we have many foe in this land – Demons, Devils, Dragons and undead – but none more dangerous than the witch who inhabits the coldest lands – which match her heart – where little light penetrates the darkness, where fires fail to burn or turn instantly to ash. She dwells in the shadowlands, in Morgrad, a city made from salt and built on dust. Do not be deceived, this is no ill conceived construction doomed to fall; no, Morgrad is said to be impregnable.” A pin could have been heard to drop, even though it would fall on deep lush grass.
“Where would we find Morgrad?” A tall Norsemen stood to ask; he was typically dressed save that his ermine robe was covered with a blue tabard on which was embroidered a great ram’s horn.
“There are some who know of it – the Gnomes and dwarves of this land – but we must be careful - She has spies everywhere.”
“What of Mephrass, my Lord? I have heard that the rift between him and his sister may be mended.” Enquired another who stood alone from the throng, this time wearing a blue tabard on which a hammer was inscribed.
“I have also heard this from the Gods. At the death of Craciss, Mephrass became the mirror in which Inwé wished to view herself. (In the same way as her role was passed to her at the death of Elorand.) Now there are two, each a mirror of the other and each with 4 children of their own.”
“What of Eolorand’s offspring ?” rejoined the horn wearer, “Do not forget the Codicil my Lord.”
“No, our thoughts were correct he did not just turn up at Minas Aarda at a time to discover an artefact and meet a Demon – it was no coincidence. What this means to us is as yet unclear save there are bonds between them and, by extension, the Dark Queen .”
“Who would you chose for your quest Lord Perion?” Asked a lithe hansom young man dressed in light riding clothes and with no obvious adornment or armour.
“You of course Hathfell; I need your subtlety…”
“Cowardice more like…” the man adorned with the hammer jokingly interrupted, for which he received a blow on the helmet from Hathfell’s swiftly drawn sword.
“And you Thorsen! Perhaps Harold and Marik would consider the journey?” Two men – clearly brothers – stood and bowed, displaying blue tabards bearing the eye of Odin.
“I will have need of the other Lords there at Caladhon.” He pointed again to the tallest of mountains as the sun rose above it.
“Why, Lord, do we not break up the cataphracts and battle the enemy across Gorgoroth, instead of hole ourselves up like some dwarven coward?” Asked a swarthy man in sable furs who wore a horned helmet and carried a vast round shield on his back, emblazoned with the image of a one-handed Norsemen holding aloft a sword.
Perion handed the man an arrow drawn from his quiver. “Break that Tyrus.”
Tyrus, still standing, reached out, took the arrow and snapped it easily. Perion reached into his quiver and drew all his remaining arrows.
“Break those, Tyrus.”
Tyrus struggled, fracturing some but the bundle remained whole.
Milai was brought back to reality, hopping down the slippery slope into the rolling wooded foothills of north Ashoria, striking for the Ishurias. For a human, Garth did remarkably well, keeping pace with the elf.
“How did you know where I would be?” Milai asks.
“Farion hast called the counsel my Lady; he sent word to Perion when my Lord visited with Elerienne. She believeth that some of the cataphracts were against our cause; she also explained her dire situation and requested help from the Men of Gorgoroth to fulfil our ancient bargain. Our party split, I came to find thee and Perion left to meet with the cataphracts west of Gos. Not knowing where to look, I was taken by Elerienne's men to Cran's stair - an outpost reported meeting with you but three nights ago. It was not hard to discover your Party once on the stair.”
“How do you know where we are going?” Milai asked again.
“Farion and Elerienne meet in the Vikriain. I am to meet with Kelorin – Perion’s guardian during his visit to the Old Hearte – as we enter the Vikriain where it joins the White Wash. He will take us to the meeting place.”
“When?”
“By nightfall…”
The conversation dried up as the terrain became easier and the sun rose. Even here, the human was adept at keeping pace and seemed to have a remarkable stamina. It is not long before the great forest appeared, shrouded in early morning mist and edged by the broad river Ishurias. Drow ships crept against the current heading east towards Sutur. “The bridges are held against us, so we shalt cross the White Wash first, east of Celin and follow its western banks southward. There is a broad crossing place north of a fortified bridge, which Farion’s men hath used on occasion. We shalt cross there and meet with Kelorin.” Garth’s voice was scarcely broken though they were both running hard. They took a path to the right, which made going easier but increased the risk of being spotted. “For speed we join the south road – you must know it well…we must be careful, the road is in enemy territory.” The day passed uneventfully. Milai’s mind wandered back to her dreams recalling the part that most troubled her…
“Look sharp he approaches.” The disembodied, scratchy voice whispered, “Do not forget we need him.”
“Ahh Dronan!” A stronger voice with a heavy oriental accent called out. Milai saw a Samurai dressed in a full O-Yoroi standing before a faintly glowing orb. His Do-Maru (main body armour) was a blaze of different colours all of which were precious stones set into metal strips. The Kote (lower arms) and Sode (upper arms) armour were deep navy blue and had images of the 4 celestial dragons. Milai recognizes Tun Mi Lung, on his right Kote. A sculpture of a serpent’s neck and head rose up from the top of the Kabuto (helmet) on which was perched a platinum circle with 6 indigo gems held in place by points in the shape of tridents. A huge Daikyo was stretched across the Samurai’s back and thrust into his deep purple obi was a katana and a wakizashi. Opposite the Samurai and striding confidently towards him across the floor was an elf. Clearly a high elf from the Vikriain, he wore the shades of green favoured by that people but there was somthing else: his tabbard was deepest purple – rather than the brighter colours used to indicate ancetry – and was embroidered with a single purple flower.
“I trust your journey was uneventful?” The Samurai asked in the customary way of an oriental making small talk.
“My Lord Tuar Chan, I have not come to exchange pleasantries. Now that your forces have taken Sutur, delivering it to the Lich, I seek your assistance with the small matter of the Vikriain.” The Elf’s voice was strained and impatient, not at all familiar to Milai.
“Ah, but the Lich has not found what he came for. Indeed, those forces assigned by his Liege to my control have already begun to be diverted to a new task .” The Samurai seemed not to be put off by the Elf’s rudeness.
“What new task could be more important than destroying the ancient sources of power?” Dronan looked concerned, as though he may have missed something.
“That depends, Dronan, on what you consider their power to be derived from. The Lich believes that the destruction of the Bitch is paramount, followed by the oriental whore who resides further south.” As he spoke, a flicker of anger passed across the Oriental’s face.
“Will the Dragon be used in this way?” Nervous now the elf merely whispered the words as if there was some great secret between the two.
“No; there are other things for him to do. Your battles against the Old Forest go well and you have managed to stop your family from interfering in my campaign against the fortress. When I have taken stock and re-supplied my forces, I will look again at the matter of the Forest. Your Lady has spoken to me – evidently she has a new toy.” This time a smile appeared on the Samurai’s lined and drawn face.
“Ah, her webs weave in mysterious ways. What of the temptress that I battle, will she fall to the same lure?” The tone continued to be conspiratorial.
“She has proved to be more ‘slippery’ I think was the expression used. It will only be a matter of time. Your Lady is keen to avoid another blunder like that of Helfellion.” The Samurai turned and paced slowly towards a table against a wall on which was a tray with two goblets and a jug. He poured wine from the Platinum jug into two matching vessels and handed one to the elf.
“So am I; my nephew fares too well in these times.” The Elf took the goblet and drunk heavily.
“His time will come to an end soon…”
“Will the Lich yield the Blade ?” Asked the elf anxiously, his nervousness clearly annoying the Samurai.
“How would I know? He is not my puppet…”
It was not until evening that things became awkward. In the late afternoon, the pair crossed the White Wash. Waist high, the river forced its way around them, threatening to knock them over and drag them to the bottom. Milai rejoiced in the feeling of being immersed in the fast-flowing water. She swam adeptly, circling the Norseman who was far less comfortable in the element. Milai was quick to stop him losing his balance, saving his dignity on more than occasion.
“The next crossing is shallower I trust?” Milai mocked as they approached the western bank.
“I am assured that it is no more than waist high,” came the under confident reply.
“As this was meant to be Garth; do you need swimming lessons?” Milai offered her hand to help the warrior up the slope; he grabbed her and pulled himself out of the water. At the same time Garth’s eyes connected with something behind the elf, “Down!” he called.
Both fell to the ground and looked over the crest of the bank to the west.
The evening sun illuminated a troop of Gith running southward some 100 yards from the river. With them were undead of all manner; they numbered more than a score. The first she knew that they had been discovered was the pain of the powerful psionic attack that penetrated her defences.
Clutching her head, Milai turned to Garth and said, “We are found; let none live!”
Garth leapt up and cleared 10 yards in one bound, simultaneously drawing a bastard sword and an axe. Milai’s bow sent four arrows into the nearest Gith, some 70 feet away, felling him on the last. The enemy spread out, flanking the companions, attempting to split them. Another Gith fell to Milai’s bow – the final arrow piecing his neck. Two Gith, having drawn long bows, returned fire but failed to find their targets. Another leap took the Norsemen into melee; striking the first Gith with his sword - slashing across his chest opening a wide wound. His second blow – a wide sweeping arc of his axe – removed the head from a decaying humanoid that stumbled within range. Milai’s head continued to be assaulted and she was not confident that her retaliation had much effect. Nevertheless, her bow found its mark felling another Gith with three well-placed arrows and a skeleton with the last. By this time, Garth had put himself in the midst of the enemy, and was being punished for it; two flaming swords struck his chest, their Gith owners having cleverly out manoeuvred his shield. He retaliated with repeated blows from both his weapons, his sheer strength ensuring they scythed through his foe. Four more arrows were enough to fell one of the Gith bowmen. Seven of the eight Gith had fallen and the undead faltered. Garth seized the initiative; not in range of the final Gith, he ploughed through the undead ranks felling four in quick succession. Milai used the last Gith for target practice, killing him with three arrows and finished an undead with a fourth. It became a rout, which Garth was happy to complete.
With half of her Sheath arrows spent, Milai set about replenishing her stock from the fallen Gith. She also looted them for other items discovering 3 strange phials containing liquids of different colour and viscosity. Amongst some coins in one of the Gith’s pouches, there was also a note written in common:
Commander Relanir,
I offer the service of this squad in your valiant defence of the Myanmack Bridge in the hope that you will be sufficiently reinforced to take the battle to the enemy. Your Lady considers you one of her top Captains, capable of achieving any quest with which you are presented. She insisted that I send you a small but capable force so that you could concentrate on disrupting the enemy’s plans. We have intelligence that a meeting of our enemy’s leaders will be taking place in the next few days less than a league inside the forest, immediately to your East, in a glade known as ‘Aerandir Folly’. You might have heard of it. Needless to say, any strike on that meeting place would provide us with a good deal of intelligence and would contribute significantly to the downfall of the much-hated Elven nobility.
Motomura noh Shungo noh Yasahara For Tuar Chan noh Hirumatsu noh Toronaga.
Milai showed the note to Garth when he returned. Drinking from a bottle with one hand, he glanced at the note held in the other. Garth breathed heavily, composed himself and watched his wounds heal. Milai recalled a song from her youth:
The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The Willow Herb tall and fair;
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Meghan was dancing there
To music of a pipe unseen,
And light of stars was in her hair,
And in her raiment glimmering.
There Aerandir came from mountains cold,
And lost he wandered under leaves,
And where the Elven river rolled
He walked alone and sorrowing.
He peered between the hemlock- leaves
And saw in wonder flowers of gold
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,
And her hair like shadow following.
She caught her breath and looked anew
And saw the sadness of lost youth
In his reddened eyes of deepest blue
And knew her feelings were mirroring.
Without a word they both reached out
And touched in wonder to embrace
Like a fly to the spider Aerandir without
Fear at their contact love blossoming.
Like day meeting night the pair entwined
Their passion as bright as setting sun
And with mortal ties left long behind
They crossed the bridge without lamenting.
Garth’s bewildered look confirmed to Milai that she had sung aloud.
“What was that?” he asked, seemingly transfixed by Milai’s voice.
“It was just an old song about a Numenorean King – Aerandir - who crossed the bridge beyond our sight. The glade was where he was said to have met a beautiful elf who took him away from this land, ending his sorrow. I thought little of it until now – just a children’s song…” Milai appeared distracted, mouthing the next line or two.
“There is oft sooth in such verse.”
“That is not the complete verse…” Milai’s head was hung, part in trying to recall the words part in sorrow.
“What do you mean?” Garth displayed little sensitivity.
“The rest is dark; told to remind us of the dangers of love – the danger of letting one’s heart rule one’s head.”
“What happens?”
“Meghan turns out to be a Drow, of some power, who devours Aerandir’s soul reducing him to a wraith and cursing him to serve the Drow. You might have heard of him – in your tongue he was called Ezollach.”
“In Odin’s name! Why are we meeting in such an ill-fated place?” Garth’s outrage was written across his face – clearly he had heard of the Lich.
“Perhaps the House of Nenya thinks it auspicious – a reminder to the Numenoreans of the fate of one of their forefathers.” Milai too looked troubled.
“Come! We must not tarry here; it would be useful to be in Elluvator’s realm before the moon rose.”
They travelled south as the sun took its time to slip behind the horizon, bathing their right sides in a warming glow. Just before darkness had completely enveloped the land, they saw the towers which occupied either end of a large fortified bridge. Crouching, they slipped into the water silently. Not without difficulty, Milai helped Garth traverse the river as quietly as possible. Suddenly, as they were midstream, shouts of alarm and bright burning light broke the silent darkness condemning the gurgle of the river’s flow to the unheard background. Turning to look south, they saw a stream of flaming arrows cut across the darkening sky from the forest to the nearest tower on their left, the east bank. Simultaneously, the top of the other tower exploded in a huge fireball. The Drow that were not burnt alive returned fire, put out flames or gathered weapons. Orders were shouted on both sides and Milai’s eye could just detect the mounted archers expertly manoeuvring amongst the trees.
Garth was already striding to the east bank, struggling against the undertow. Milai swam rapidly against the flow to the west bank where the north side of the tower plunged into the river. Looking up, the top of the tower was ablaze and no one had observed her approach from the bridge itself. Arrows rained down on the Drow in both towers and on the bridge between them. Milai lifted herself out of the water and on herself cast spider climb. Still undetected, she climbed the North wall, edging around the tower in a clockwise direction so that she could reach the parapet of the bridge, some 30 feet above the water and 40 feet beneath the top of the burning tower. Slipping over the parapet she dropped silently behind a Drow archer and saw others running toward the east end of the bridge preparing to repel the assault. Having unsheathed Agan silently, a faintly glowing blast of force emanated from the arcane sword killing the archer before Milai had a chance to strike. The shout, “For Elluvator!” caused her to look down the length of the bridge where she saw an assault force of high elf warriors charging the Drow. The forces looked evenly matched. Milai’s heightened senses became aware of a presence behind her; spinning around she saw two massive green trolls emerge from the tunnel at the bottom of the tower only 20 feet away.
Stretching her hand and speaking the ancient words of the Paladin, she called forth missiles from her gauntlets that plunged into the nearest Troll. As the Trolls charged her, Milai drew her short sword and shouted, “For Aegir and Agrion!” Her movement became a blur, blow after blow sunk into the trolls cutting them down rapidly. With no time to set them alight, Milai ran forward to face a fresh assualt from Drow infantry, many of whom died as Agan approached and others fell to her whirling blades. Oblivious to the arrow fire from above, Milai made her way to the tunnel, hacking and killing all that stood in her way.
Suddenly, things were quiet. Milai stood in the ‘murder hole’ at the west end of the bridge underneath the tower. To her left and right the iron doors into the tower were open and nothing was coming through or being dropped or fired from above. Around her lay six dead Drow and two Trolls. Making a snap decision, she disappeared through the left (south) door into a small empty room. Along the north wall were arrow slits which opened into the murder hole behind her. The other walls were bare and in the southwest corner was a spiral staircase leading up clockwise. Swiftly, she bounded up the stairs. Dispite being the size of the tower – 40 foot square - and spanning the murder hole below, the next floor was also empty. The arrow slits pierced each wall and stones were piled up next to trap doors in the floor, waiting to be dropped into the hole below. Smoke covered the roof and the acrid smell of burning flesh pervaded the air. Summising that there was little point in continuing, Milai left the tower preparing a torch with which to set the trolls aflame.
Leaving the tower, Milai found Garth and a group of high elves that had beaten her to the trolls, which were now well alight.
“My Lady, thou art unharmed I hope?” Garth asked knowing the answer.
“And thee, Garth?” Milai asked politely, nodding to acknowledge his question whilst looking for a leader amongst the nearby elves.
As if reading her mind, Garth replied, “My Lady, Kelorin awaits us at the other end.” He indicated the direction unnecessarily with a grand gesture, slightly bowing.
Milai recognised Kelorin from her meeting with him in the keep on the road to Minis Tiris. Having walked across the bridge, weaving around the many Vikriain elves who were busy moving the bodies from the bridge, she approached Kelorin who bowed deeply, whilst others nearby seemed to recognize Milai for the first time and copied his lead.
“Hail my Lady, it is good to see you again.” Kelorin was of average height and build for an elf and wore no insignia or mark of significance. Dressed in shades of green, with long blonde hair, high cheek bones and deep set green eyes, and armed in the ususal way, Kelorin appeared completely unremarkable. But there was something about his demeanour which betrayed his importance. He was relaxed, graceful, even serene.
“Lord Perion would have me take you to meet with our elders; he is of the opinion that your voice might influence some of our folk who would prefer to rediscover our ancient realm rather than face the enemy here.” He came to the point as if nothing had happened before nor would it after.
So that was it: Milai was a pawn of a human warrior bent on furthering the needs of the youngest people...Perhaps that was unfare but Milai could not help but feel used. Surely her people should decide for themselves as they had so long ago when the first born were split. This was different; how many times had she herself thought about leaving? Since before Nagrad, before Fontinver, before being given Agan...No, she must put these fantasies from her mind – or risk making the past insignificant. All those that had perished rather than give up – were their lives spent in vein? Milai’s thoughts continued to turn over and over as she follwed Kelorin into the Vikriain.
It was very dark by the time they reached the outskirts of Elluvator’s court. The subtle multicoloured glow of shaded lanterns heralded the perimeter of what appeared to be nothing more than a thinning of the dense deciduous forest. Great sheets of material had been hung high up between trees around which arial walkways were just discernable, against the occasional glimpse of the night sky. A breeze filled the silk causing them to billow like the sails of some invisible ship. It was too dark to distinguish the motifs; however, Milai knew them well enough: the coloured leaves of the House of Nenya from whom Elluvator was descended; the woodland scenes, illuminated by the sun or the stars - symbols of Nimsor’s House of Sylvan elves from whom Gelmir, Astorin, Lucielle and Celestar were descended; Amradire and the Numenoreas whose auspicious descendants included Lastar, Aerandir, and more recently Gwendolyn; and finally the House of Elwe of Lorial whose brightly coloured ‘sails’ could be seen despite the dark. The array was dazzling; Milai could not remember such a gathering of elves. Taken to the fringe of a glade to the southwest of the court, Milai could just make out her Great Grandfather’s symbol of the black boat sailing through the setting sun emblazoned on a sheet high up in the canopy. As she approached, she became aware of an old song floating gently on the breeze. The men and womenfolk who were busy preparing the traditional late meal sang alternate verses. The younger elves played instruments softly in the darkness; the tune was melancholy and somehow seemed to fit perfectly. Milai knew the song well and joined in with the women...
Come with me, love! There is light in the West
Where Two Trees illumine the land they have blessed!
Come with me, love! The Gods will share
Their beauty and wisdom, so let us go there!
I see the stars a bright woven web,
The fountains flowing, the tangled trees.
Such beauty beholding, why must I wander?
Why must I grieve?
This land I love, so why must I leave?
Come with me, love! The Western sky
Is brighter far than stars on high!
The grass is green, the flowers fair
In lands the Gods comfort and care!
But their light is locked in a little land:
Their wisdom withdrawn and their homeland hidden
Beyond the bounds of the world we know.
Why have these Gods no comfort and care
For the land I love that I must go there?
Trust me, my love, and let us depart
Together is home and comfort of heart!
The Hunter's horse will lead us together
Past plains and mountain, forest and heather!
Yes, shadows are swift! And terrors have tracked us
Lurking and laughing with evil eyes.
We wavered not, nor hid in holes
Nor faltered in fear nor let liars lure us!
So why should I heed
That terrible rider on his terrible steed?
I beg you my bride: my family, my friends
Pack, prepare like buzzing bees.
Hel gathers, Ragnarock near,
They laugh, they sing:
I stand, a bird with broken wing.
Stay here my love! There is life in the East -
Children, laughter, song and feast.
Stay with me, love! I could not bear
To live here alone, if you were not there!
When dreams have died past loss to live
Is hard, for hunger hews the heart.
When love's a lock and beauty binds,
The heart's a fragile thing:
A captive that sorrows and seldom can sing.
Never, my love! I cannot savour
A captive's love, or grudging favour.
Go if you must, then I must go too,
Torn from this land because I love you.
My bride, beware - I know your nature:
You seek out safety, haven, and home.
To wander wild is care not comfort,
In lands foreign and strange:
Where your heart must delight in disturbance and change.
My love, I release the nets of my heart:
Our home is together, do not stand apart!
I can learn to live in alien lands
And hold my safety in open hands.
Forget such words, let us sing together!
Of beauty in star, and tree, and heather!
If you love this land, this land's my heart,
More precious than gems cut by cunning art!
I'll stay, my darling, and never roam;
Love's my adventure, your eyes my home.
There's wonder enough in your smiling glance
To shatter the world and make mountains dance.
So wondrous was the sound of her folk singing that Milai stopped and listened for a long while.
“My Lady?” A voice barely entered her consciousness after the singing had died and the sound of the wind in the ‘sail’ was all that remained.
“Would you care for supper?” Before her stood a growing group of Sea Elves that Milai recognised: her uncles Menaloas and Calenar, who was with his eldest daughter Mimm (renowned for her beauty) and his youngest son Beren; her great aunt Ingrem had also made the journey with much of her family; and all their entourage. Like many of her kin, the elves were seldom together but they were no less close for that. Milai embraced them individually. Genuine tears of affection welled in their eyes; relief that the Dragon did not seriously hurt Milai was widely expressed, along with shared feelings of loss for their fallen relatives and comrades.
“Welcome back my Lady!” her uncle Calenar said, trying to contain the tears is his eyes and stifle the pain of losing two sons, which struck at his heart.
Taken to her accommodation and waited on by those of her folk of lesser stature, Milai showed keen interest in all topics of conversation, no matter how insignificant. Food and wine was available in the great meeting hall where, as Queen, Milai had the seat of honour. The main thrust of the discussion revolved around the decision that her folk had faced in the most ancient of times – whether to leave this land and search for the lost realm over the sea or to stay put. Thankfully, her people had arrived at a unanimous conclusion – they wished to stay. Milai questioned her folk intently on their capacity to re-build the fleet; encouragingly, she was told that work had already commenced – 3 new warships, of Galleon size, were assembled and awaiting her at Fontainver in Amorsland . Production has ceased in Evrinstar when Celin and Ashor had both fallen. However, the growing dominion of Orcus in the West had delayed progress and the lack of metalworkers (now that the great Dwarven Houses were no more) reduced supplies had delayed progress further.
Milai asked Ingrem about the Crown, as she was renown for her lore in such matters. She brewed a warming leaf tea in an ancient copper kettle over an open fire. As she worked – poking the fire, stirring the tea, fetching the cups – she talked.
“The first piece was created by Balem in Zundar with the aid of the Orodruin Dwarves and the use of Ishtur’s Ring of Fire; Lastar added a single diamond and blessed it with potent dweomer. Balem named it the Crown of Light. After Balem proved its worth in the battle of Hama’Las, Lastar made the other pieces at Sutur with the aid of Orodruin’s folk and the Rings of Power. These he gave to the Kings of the day, keeping the 7th and binding piece for himself. Each piece was made with white stones – diamonds I am told; however, the stones took on a colour after the parts were separated – light broken into 7 parts – by Orcus’ Wand. It is rumoured that the Crowns were made to bring the unique power of the inner planes to the Prime. That is except for the last and most powerful piece – the binding piece.”
Milai sat near the fire and accepted a cup from Ingrem, listening intently.
“That piece will control all the others should they come within range; even the bearer’s mind is subject to the will of the binding piece…Perhaps that’s how Lastar controlled the races ?”
“Where does that leave my Crown?” Milai asked, keen to know its history.
“During the battles of the 2nd Age, Olga was repeatedly besieged and the Crown passed from father to son as the dwarrowdelf fell. The last owner was Kalasar, who was destroyed by Ezollach the Lich King, Bavarik’s bane. At the end of the 2nd Age, as Demogorgon’s forces retreated, Erowin discovered Ezollach in his hiding place at Olga and, in 825, as the 3rd Age began, Erowin was fatally wounded by his Father’s bane. Determined to have his revenge, Erowin’s son Imrahir, layed siege to Olga, not allowing Ezollach to leave. Weakened and without support from Demogorgon, Ezollach’s power waned. Surprised by Imrahir, Ezollach was killed and the Crown passed to the new Castellan of Sutur.”
Both sipped their tea, sat facing one another in a small kitchen, deep within a vast oak tree at the heart of the forest meting place.
“Go on.” Milai urged gently as the elderly elf’s gaze seemed drawn to the firelight.
“In 928, Imrahir was killed by Dordraug but his crown fell to the battlefield and not to the victor. It was recovered to Minas Maedus by Grobdûr, Kûlar’s oldest son. After the Battle for Sutur, in 930, and the flight of Dordraug, Grobdûr returned the Crown to Eomere the Castellan. However, the reign of the evil western man brought civil war amongst the humans in the 5th Age. For standing against the evil Lord, Eomere was hanged for treason and his crown taken up for ill. Yet the war lasted a mere blinking of an eye for our folk and the crown passed to Ythanos, who banished Iki Moko, ending the tyranny.”
Another sip and a long pause as the aging elf collected her thoughts; Milai knew not to interrupt.
“Renash urged Ythanos and others to challenge the hated serpent holed up in Tiris with the aim of ridding the Prime from its ancient source of evil. Unfortunately, the Dragon proved too powerful, Renash was lucky to escape with his life and the Crown – Ythanos and many others perished. When Ythanos’ sole heir Aran was old enough, Renash passed the Crown to him and it once again became part of the heritage of the Castellans of Sutur, with Dulan becoming the final of Bavarik’s lineage to wear the Crown when Aran was killed by Dordraug.”
“Can I wield the Crown for our cause or shall I seek a more deserving owner?” Milai was keen to discover its power.
“I know of no other more deserving owner, my Lady. I’ll help you discover its power if you wish.”
That night Milai and her great aunt poured over books and cast spells to identify the hidden powers of the Crown. It was discovered that the Crown increased Milai’s psionic ability by 10 points and bestowed a random mental ability. Furthermore, the Crown increased magic resistance by 10% and added +1 to the Morale Modifiers for all friendly forces with sight of the crown or within 100 yards. Milai’s charisma was increased by 1 and she understood dwarf language and writing clearly. Moreover, any dwarf could be influenced to conduct some deed, as per suggestion spell with no saving throw – racial modifiers did not apply – unless it would go against their natural alignment. The Crown also provided immunity to fear, poison and disease. The table, below, shows other powers discovered during the overnight study.
The cool green grass was long and swayed gently in the breeze, which seemed to come from the shadows cast by the vast cedars punctuating the crescent-shaped glade of oaks in front. The zephyr climbed the slope to mingle with the early heat haze that danced above the wildflowers and blurred the crystal-clear blue sky. Behind, the meadow sloped upwards to a ridgeline that stretched across the close horizon, beyond which Milai knew the forest once again encroached. The willow herb, butter cups and bindweed brought colour to the green shaded pallet but were outshone by the gathering of elves – each with their own brightly coloured apparel. Milai recognised the noble high elves of the Vikriain - Elluvator King of the Vikriain, his eldest son Calenwë, and Calenwë’s only son Farion – whose right it was to sit in the centre of the glade. Their flags sparkled in the bright daylight - silver, gold, copper and bronze. Each flag bore the symbol of an autumn leaf floating on the wind; a different leaf with a different autumnal hue. Milai recognised Farion’s insignia in the centre – an ochre coloured oak leaf on a pale blue background. To the north, Elerienne was clearly visible amongst her people; her willowy form, was clad in brightly burnished armour, taught and ready, long and short swords by her sides. Her long flowing hair, a deep shade of gold, offset the platinum band with its violet gem firmly fixed atop, and ran to her hips. Her eyes were pure azure, deep and rich, young but wise. Behind her folk, her banner – a single-pointed, violet-gem encrusted crown over a rich green forest beneath a silver half-moon.
To the East, Celestar walked to a small dais around which the Sylvan elves sat. Shorter than other elves, his race were no less capable warriors for it. Celestar himself had a fearsome reputation as a swordsman and could outclass most in archery. However, he was a more gentle soul than his reputation led one to believe. Dressed in the bright gold and umbers of autumns past and the silver of the birch trees, which abound in the Sylvan forests, Celestar made slow progress towards his throne, stopping to talk to his people and glance at the assembled throng. His eyes shot Milai a happy smile of emerald green as he swept his long, straight silver hair from his face. His right hand on his sword, Celestar bowed deeply, acknowledging her safe return. The suns and stars, which adorned his nation’s banners, spoke of their devotion to Frey and Freya.
To the South, the Numenoreans came in number and, judging by their banners, from all over Everinstar. Gwendolyn sat at their head on a throne carved in the shape of a young tree reaching up and spreading its branches wide. Holding her head high, Milai saw Gwendolyn’s beauty and recognised her inner strength – what this female has had to endure… Her black hair flowed in the breeze; the pale soft skin of her face, reddened at the cheek, was broken by a broad, bright smile bound by full ruby lips. Her grey/blue eyes were keen – moving swiftly but lingering just long enough to drink in all that happened. Dressed in shades of blue, her fine silk moved at the slightest prompt revealing her curvaceous form. Those around her seemed spell-bound, daring not to look into those big eyes that had seen so much. Half-elves from across the land were assembled and more arrived to pay their respects to the Lady who once sat on the mightiest throne in Everinstar.
Milai’s dais was traditional – carved to form a warship, the seat was the poop deck and the forecastle a footrest. Behind the throne was a 15-foot high banner of her ancestors and, sat around, her friends and family arranged outward from her in order of nobility. The sun was well over the dark green line of the Vikriain forest by the time all were gathered. Milai looked upon the first of those to talk – Farion, only son of Calenwë, eldest of Elluvator’s children. Why did not Elluvator himself or even Calenwë speak first? She noted how the golden sunlight reflected in his bright mithril coat, setting him aglow. She was immediately struck by his deep green eyes, his good looks, confidence, charm and, most of all, his composure. There was such an inner strength and charisma in him that all were compelled to listen when he spoke. His voice was soft and deep like an echo inside the hollow of a tree. His frame was lean, taught, lightly muscled and scarred. Had she not known him, she would be able to judge by his physique and his demeanour that he had seen many battles. He addressed all as equals and, despite the serious subject, was easy, good-humoured and relaxed. He told of Merc’s battles against both the Drow and his inner self. How he had achieved a famous victory at Helfellion despite massive odds. He spoke briefly and with modesty of his acts against the dark elves since and of his uncle Dronan’s sad betrayal. Finally, he spoke of his distant cousins that still lived in the Old Forest, of which the Vikriain was once part, and their battles with all manner of evil – yet they remained. Throughout, his message was one of unity, strength and honour and he repeatedly returned to the ancient pact between men and elf. It became obvious to Milai that Farion symbolized the latest generation of elves, those that needed to be influenced, and those that would be needed to sustain the fight. Who better to impart the message?
During Farion’s speech, Milai noted with interest that Elerienne’s folk were quite animated and often supportive, whilst the Sylvan elves listened intently without comment. As they were the oldest people of Everinstar, Celestar, their King, spoke next. He was very much more cautious and explained the evils that his folk had witnessed building in the east. Demogorgan roamed unopposed across the forgotten lands from Zundar to the Minas in the West of Eriador. Orcus’ forces held much of the Iron and Ruby Mountains, occupied Madur and Dunland, and besieged Nega. Orcus’ minion was in Gos and he had a strong pact with the Drow who seemed now to be everywhere. It is as if they had returned to the Age of Fear (their name for the Second Age). He reminded the assembled that Mercantire Carass was a Sylvan Elf who had fought alongside men many times, so honouring the pact of which Farion spoke. However, he questioned the utility of continuing to do so. He asked the rhetorical question, “Why was it that Farion’s Great Uncle and ruler of the Old Forest, Nethiel, could not be there today?” Milai knew well the difficulties that they faced alone . Celestar made an impassioned plea, whilst staring directly at Milai, that they should leave to find the ancient homelands before it was too late. They were not as numerous as they had been in the Second Age and looked annihilation in the face. It was easier for the elves of the West, they could use the sea to escape; there was no such way out for Sylvan Elf or for those from the Old Forest. Milai detected the slight barb – the Vikriain elves were not the oldest and, therefore, this meeting should be held in their cousin’s lands.
Elluvator asked that they broke with tradition and heard from Elerienne next. For although the Sea Elves were more ancient, it seemed to the King of the Vikriain that their thoughts might prove decisive, and he wished to hear all counsel before the vote. Elerienne was an impassioned speaker. The tale of woe that had become her life since Eolire had almost ensnared her was repeated for all to hear. It culminated when, thanks to Gwendolyn, she saw her destiny. She had managed to escape the clutches of the Drow, return to her people and honour the bonds of their folk. Time after time, her people had smashed the Drow, despite the mauling they had received at the hands of the fell creatures, including the cursed Dragon. Her folk had saved Sutur repeatedly before it sadly fell leaving them exposed. Her story was understood well but then came the shock:
“My friends I have heard much about (undoubtedly) one of the most courageous of our kin but I do not believe that you understand what his loss means to us.” The assembled throng were focussed on her every word. “Mercantire Carass brought hope to our nations. He became a rallying point and his victory at Helfellion galvanised people to action. If, as the rumours have it, he has fallen victim to the Dark Queen, not only have we lost a talented tactician and general, we have lost a much needed symbol of unity and strength for whom people would put their lives a risk. Moreover, if she has managed to pervert him, like her ancestors did to one of your folk,” Elerienne looked directly at Gwendolyn who was looking at the green sward which divided the two, “then we have an extremely powerful enemy to fight.” A long silence ensued as Elerienne’s eyes traversed the assembled throng.
“You are quite right my Lady,” Gwendolyn was fist to break the quiet, “I too have wondered about his disappearance and it would be a tragedy if he had succumbed. But let us consider what we have, what we can draw strength from before we cast aside hope.”
Elerienne bows as if to signal that she had nothing more to say and returned to her folk.
“Perhaps that is a good time to hear from the Numenoreans?” Elluvator suggested.
Gwendolyn expertly delivered a confident oratory that summed up the position for all races. She started by outlining the situation against the free people of Everinstar and ended with powerful reasons for optimism. She endorsed the situation described by Celestar and Elerienne and added that Tuar Chan’s forces were effectively controlled by Guerin from Sutur, which the enemy was rebuilding . Guerin was using the undead and Gith to probe into Malen, searching for those that had fled Sutur. Minas Tiris was held against them, though there seemed little coordination amongst its occupiers. Little was know of Ishtur and Rodrus but Minas Emras was known to be besieged by Yeanoghu’s Gnoll army. The Dark Queen and her Drow seemed to be offering support to the highest bidder throughout Everinstar.
However, Minas Aarda was re-occupied, albeit in small number, and Calahar Bridge remained under Calenwe’s control - though Olga was ungoverned. Kaled Zem was largely for good although the enemy was trying to alter that. Men in the North under Perion offered hope of the recapture of Gos and driving a wedge between the Demons and Inwe. Above all, the ancient elven houses remained: Lorial in the Old Heart; the Sylvan elves; the House of Nenya in the Old Forest and the Vikriain; the Numenoreans throughout the land and the Sea Elves. Whist they had been depleted, it seemed that they offered the most credible force to wield against the old enemies.
“Cousins, it is up to us! If we leave this land it will fall to evil. If we stay, we offer hope to the younger folk and stand a chance of ridding Everinstar of evil once and for all.” Many nodded in agreement but the Sylvan elves still looked troubled.
“Would we sacrifice the last of us for this land which is not our ancient home? I, for one, have yet to be convinced. We are a people in decline – half the number we were at the beginning of the Age of Fear. How can we withstand another challenge, which appears more pressing and significant?” Celestar had no malice in his voice; his point was heartfelt.
“My Lord, I do not underestimate the challenge. We too are not at our former strength and we continue to lose our bravest. But we must stand now, before it is too late.” Gwendolyn captured the audience and Celestar listened carefully.
“We believe that a new White Counsel is required. We understand that the Party you have spoken of has many of your ancestor’s relics. Are they to be trusted? Will they desert us when we need them most, when we are but few and men take control of Everinstar?” Celestar’s questions seemed to cut to the core of the issue.
Gwendolyn composed herself before starting to reply but Milai found herself breaking her silence, “Lord Celestar, I have respected the wishes of our host – remaining quiet so that all counsel could be heard – but I must interject. The Party saved me when all hope seemed lost; who of you could have defeated a monster so powerful? They have destroyed dragons, demons and devils, Gith Lords and Cloud Giants – all in the name of good and for the good of the Prime. They have set people free in Hama Las and elsewhere and they have benefited from the leadership of one of our greatest captains – Merc. I beg you not to doubt them. It is true that they, like some of us here, have powerful relics of the past, but they have not used them for ill; indeed, they foil the enemy without them. I would not decide here who should or should not preside over the free races in a new White Counsel without their participation.”
“My Lady, it is clear that your friends should have prominent seats on the Counsel but we are not here to discuss the make-up of such an august body. No, our deliberations are about something more fundamental – our desire to remain in Everinstar.” Again, Celestar cut to the quick not wishing to be drawn into long debate.
“Perhaps it is time that I revealed how my people wish to proceed.” Milai briefly paused for a signal from Elluvator to continue. “We would not abandon the other races to their fate at the hands of our enemies...” She held up a hand to belay Celestar’s protest, “We have suffered as much as any race here – our fleet is destroyed and all of us have lost loved ones at the hands of evil. We have also honoured our oaths to you and other races and I will not lead my people on a course of action which will break those oaths.” The conviction was infectious and many elves applauded, whilst Celestar looked on impassively. Milai walked to the centre, circled slowly as she spoke and looked deeply into the upturned elven faces. ”Could you Manoirai? Could you Eferial? You Perefoil?” she singled out elves of other races, embarrassing them or seeking their approval with a soulful gaze. “No. We do not break oaths. We do not abandon weaker peoples to their fait at the hands of evil. We do not run before the enemy. We stand! We fight! We keep our dignity, encouraging others to stand by our side as our forefathers did!” She stared intently at Celestar. “We know how the Sylvan elves have suffered. We know how you live with the shame of being related to the Drow and how that eats at your soul. No-one thinks less of your people for posing the question, Celestar, but surely you must know the answer. Come, help us rid the land of those that would seek to destroy it, and us. We need you beside us, just as we all stood in Hama’Las when the humans needed us a thousand years ago. Turn your back on those that whisper and doomsay; face your demons and make the right choice!”
By the midday meal, the debate seemed to have reached a conclusion; Celestar agreed to continue to assist the races until a Council was formed and new guidance given. Celestar sought immediate aid, which only Gwendolyn appeared to be in a position to honour, and he asked that Milai’s friends be brought to the Sylvan lands so that he might judge for himself their intentions. Milai explained that they were free to come and go as they please but she would ask, if only in the interest in maintaining the harmony between the races. Celestar also asked that counsel from the remaining dwarven houses be sought as a matter of urgency. Each condition was captured by Vikriain scribes; Milai was formally tasked to request that the Party be brought to the Sylvan lands to parley with Celestar.
Food was served to each race according to their traditions. Milai could not remember when she last enjoyed such a meal. She had begun her second course – a lightly salted salmon drizzled with lemon and a touch of wine – when Garth appeared. He looked awkward and clumsy in such company and Milai had forgotten the sheer size of the man. “My Lady, forgive me for interrupting,” he began. Next to Garth, Milai’s uncle Menaloas stood nervously, “we have news that two great serpents have been seen in the vicinity of Minas Tiris.”
Milai set her solid silver cutlery to one side and stood, “What serpents?” she asked quietly, already knowing one would be Rantor.
“The elves believe them to be Rantor and Si Lung,” he replied in a lowered tone, matching Milai’s own, “the River Dragon flees from Rantor out to sea.”
“Then she was captured and has escaped - that explains much. This is evidence of the work that my friends are doing under that cursed tower.”
“They have freed a dragon?” Garth asked, slow to grasp the reality.
“Yes! They must have taken the Orb of Dragor! I must see Celestar now…” Milai ran nimbly across the glade attracting the attention of all those sat in the grass, eating their meal.
“Lord Celestar, sorry to interrupt your meal, but I have just been informed that my friends have taken the Orb of Dragor and used it to release Si Lung! She is being chased by Rantor.” Milai’s voice rose with excitement, “They have succeeded in their first mission. I am more confident now that they will be able to close the gate and exit the Minas before Rantor knows what has happened.”
“And what of Tuar Chan, my Lady? Do not underestimate his strength.” Celestar was standing with a small hunting knife in one hand and an apple in the other.
“Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself, but they are capable of amazing things – they killed Tun Mi Lung!” She almost shouted.
“We cannot let Si Lung be destroyed by the evil serpent.” Celestar was wrapped up in the possibilities – could this small band of friends unpick the thorny issue of Minas Tiris?
“And we need to buy time for my friends…” Milai mused, almost to herself, deep in thought.
“I will launch the Griffon-mark to distract and lure the beast away.”
“It will not take long…perhaps I could be of assistance?” Milai could feel the blood rush; the opportunity to strike at her most hated foe – Rantor – was almost too much.
Gwendolyn had approached the pair almost unnoticed but now spoke with authority, “Your friends battle Tuar Chan,” she effortlessly held up a glass orb in her right hand, a foot in diameter and swirling with bright colours through which Milai saw the strangest battle unfold. Her friends were in various states of health engaging all manner of foe from the top of a flying carpet. (See Dafydd’s notes.) What caught her eye was the Samurai from her dreams fighting desperately amongst many others of his kind.
“They must be allowed to flee!” Milai almost shrieked.
“Indeed,” Celestar said, appearing mesmerised by the picture unfolding in the orb, “…to the Griffon Kraal!”
Next to Celestar a Sylvan elf blew a clear sharp note which was the catalyst for a plethora of activity amongst his folk. Milai ran back across the green sward to her folk where she was met by her uncle whose concern was etched into his face, “You do not have to do this; there are many others, let them take responsibility – we need you here!”
Milai put a caring hand on Menaloas’ shoulder and looked into his eyes, “I have to go, my friends are in trouble and this is a chance to get close to my most hated enemy…I have to go. Please don’t try to stop me. I love you all,” Milai cast her eyes about the folk gathered before her and came to rest on Beren, who blushed.
“Of course we cannot stop you my Lady, but we are all concerned…Go then and may Aegire protect you.” Menaloas said, bowing.
Having collected her things and briefly looked back, Milai followed the Sylvan elves as they ran to the kraal. She approached a Griffon that was held for her by a Sylvan elf dressed in ceremonial plate armour. He bowed as Milai approached, “My Lady, this is Reignor he is Prince among his folk…” Milai recalled that Sylvan elves were often paired with Griffon from birth – their souls were said to be twinned – and they instinctively knew one another making them a deadly combination in the air.
“Surely I ride behind you..?”
“I am Guirendol, Captain of the 1st Griffon-Mark and would be honoured to bear you.” Milai was struck by the fact that Guirendol’s movements (no matter how slight) appeared mirrored by Reignor, or was it vice-versa? Guirendol motioned to the saddle and the griffon moved, simultaneously, to allow access.
“Reignor, it is a privilege to be carried by such an illustrious steed,” Milai’s supplicant tone was well received.
“My Lady, it is my honour,” the Griffon replied in a smooth elven tongue, “if you are not versed in aerial combat, might I suggest that you restrict yourself to use of the bow? Wielding a sword can be a dangerous activity for all of us if you are not well practiced.”
“Of course…” Milai replied, for the first time contemplating aerial combat as she mounted the saddle. Guirendol climbed aboard using the forward stirrups and, without any obvious saddle, remained standing.
“Are you ready, my Lady?” Guirendol asked as Reignor craned his long neck to observe her response. Having responded positively, the Griffon lifted off with an almighty beat of its wings; two more flaps and the three were above the trees, heading north. Milai was swiftly joined two score griffon and riders on their way to the last reported sighting of the dragons. It was a swift journey; the griffons were fast but the dragons were incredible, plummeting out of the scattered cloud and banking steeply before climbing again. The Dracolich dwarfed the great Water Dragon, that Milai knew well. What Si Lung lacked in speed she made up for in manoeuvrability - weaving, banking, altering speed and direction – anything to minimize the chance of being grabbed by Rantor, with his enormous talons, or being incinerated by his breath. Magic too was in the air: both dragons glowed gently in the bright daylight; fire, ice, lightning and streaks of light shot from one to the other and back again; and the shock of spell and counter spell reverberated across the foothills of Crag Un. Too quickly the Griffon-Mark were embroiled; the lead pair were fried as they tried to distract the evil serpent and two more were batted like insects to the ground. Three-hundred yards were covered in the blinking of an eye, as Si Lung spread her wings and banked left, south, towards Milai, dragging Rantor closer. The Dracolich had climbed, taking in the threat of his newly arrived opponents whilst keeping up with Si Lung. Arrows begun to strike the mighty, undead beast with no apparent effect. Before Milai could notch an arrow or cast a spell, Rantor appeared to realise what was happening. He turned his massive head towards Minas Tiris, roared and climbed straight up. Instantly aware of Rantor’s movement, Si Lung stalled in front of Milai’s Griffon and called, “He returns to Tiris to destroy your friends! You must delay him.” Milai detected the fear around her, “Come the first Griffon-Mark, our task begins!”
Speaking the ancient language of Findor’s dwarves she called forth a lightning bolt of huge force from the Crown which defied some of the Serpent’s resistance and caught his attention. Wheeling rapidly, Rantor looked straight at Milai as if he recognized her, opened his gaping maw and exhaled a huge billowing inferno. Milai’s ability to dissipate the fire was much appreciated by her steed and pilot - having saved their lives. Two other griffons and their riders were not so lucky. The psionic attack that followed stunned Milai and the magical missiles that ploughed into Reignor nearly brought them all down. Rantor climbed again and banked steeply to the north, ignoring the griffons.
Suddenly, Si Lung re-appeared diving wildly, striking deeply into the Dracolich’s back and biting down on its neck. The dragons spiralled, tumbling one over another as each struggled to gain the upper hand, plummeting to the ground. The noise was unearthly – howling, snarling, the clash of scales and the beating of wings – echoing across the broken land. Too close to use a breath weapon, both dragons were locked in a death grip; instinctively, Milai knew which would prove the stronger. She too was locked in battle – a battle of the mind, and again the serpent was proving to be superior. Summoning the Pheonix seemed to be her only choice. In an instant, a huge burst of flame and billowing smoke announced the arrival of the imposing bird. Whilst dwarfed by Rantor’s sheer size, the bright colours and beauty of the phoenix made it an impressive creature to behold. The new dimension was swiftly appreciated by the Dracolich who switched his position, narrowly avoiding striking the ground. Rantor fended off Si Lung’s attack and, as his back legs made contact with the foothills of Crag Un, blasted her with stream of fire. Rantor glowed darkness; no longer concerned with the nuisance of the River Dragon, he faced the giant fiery bird. Dreadfully wounded, Si Lung fell to the ground and rolled down the sloping foothills into the boulder strewn upper reaches of a fluvial plain. Milai seized the opportunity of Rantor’s indecision to direct her steed to Si Lung’s aid, whilst her mental battle with the Dracolich continued.
Leaping from Reignor’s back, Milai landed close to the fallen serpent, “No!” she cried, “Don’t you die!”
Uncomfortable being on the ground so close to the vast and threatening Dracolich, Guirendol directed the Griffon into the sky - “Hurry my Lady, we will perish here!” he called after Milai.
“Go! Return to Celestar with what is left of the Griffon-mark; we cannot hope to win here.”
“We will not leave you, my Lady…” Guirendol called banking left in a wide circle taking him away from Rantor. Before Milai had a chance to reply, Rantor leapt into the air and, stretching his wings, glided down the slope towards where Si Lung lay. With lightening speed, the Phoenix was between Milai and the Dracolich, shimmering gold, orange and brightest yellow.
“Be gone, Rantor Draco Mort!” The words from the phoenix sounded loudly in Milai’s mind, shielding her from mental attack, and were accompanied by an enormous flash of light and an explosion that echoed throughout the hills of Crag Un for what seemed like an eternity. The Dracolich was stunned and, landing awkwardly, failed to seize Milai in his jaws; instead, he folded his wings and struggled to gain his footing amongst the splinters of stone. Clearly surprised by the power of the Phoenix’s command, Rantor collected himself, giving Milai time to cast Heal from Agan upon Si Lung.
The exchange of magic was prolific; spell and counter spell passed swiftly between the giant creatures – positive explosive energy versus a deeply volatile negativity. No flames passed between the two; instead, it became light versus darkness, and darkness was winning. The Phoenix had bought time for Milai to rescue Si Lung, who was then able to climb from the hills, lifting Milai with her, and turn south – back towards the Vikriain – using the slope to accelerate rapidly away from the Dracolich. “Leave the Prime! Save yourself!” Milai called to the fiery-hewn bird whose brightness was diminished during the battle with Rantor. Realising the truth, the Phoenix became ethereal, much to Rantor’s mirth, “Never return fledgling – you know not my power!” and, turning towards the River Dragon, under which Milai was borne, he roared “I know you Milai!” Then, taking to the air, Rantor called after his routed foes, “Your time will come, Milai, and I will cook you like I did your father! Now I will toast your friends; they have made a grave mistake - entering my home without my leave.” With two enormously powerful thrusts of his wings, Rantor was airborne and climbing up the side of Crag Un, towards the Minas. As if reading her mind, Si Lung said, “Not this time Milai; we cannot defeat such a power. Let us hope that we have gained sufficient time for your friends to escape.
The phoenix appeared on the edge of the Prime, a dimly glowing golden silhouette. “He was too much for me, my Lady.” the phoenix spoke in an ancient elven tongue that Milai understood from her childhood. “I leave the Prime unless you have more for me to do?”
“Go ahead of the Dracolich, warn my friends of his approach and, if you can, assist them to use the gate at Tiris.”
“Of course, my Lady, do not worry; I feel the time of Rantor is due to come to an end.” The glow disappeared but Milai was warmed by the Phoenix’s positive thoughts.
As the Phoenix’s light diminished, Reignor and Guirendol swooped down underneath Si Lung, enabling the dragon to place Milai safely onto Reignor’s saddle. The remaining Griffon-mark closed around them on their journey to the Vikriain.
“Milai! Oh, thank Sif!” Ingrem ran to the clearing yelling over and over; others came to see the return of the Griffon and Milai and were surprised to see Si Lung. Celestar stood at the centre looking up into Milai’s eyes. In her mind she heard him say, “Thank Frey you are safe; I would not have forgiven myself…” Gwendolyn interrupted, “Your friends are with the Phoenix, hurry we must see what unfolds!” (Milai was beginning to become used to the constant invasion of her mind.) Looking down as the Griffon circled to land, Milai’s eyes were drawn to the southern edge of the clearing from where Gwendolyn strode toward Celestar. Their eyes met, and Milai could sense the possibility of a deep friendship existing between them. The sun was setting and a hunger welled inside Milai; the clearing was packed with elves of all races, welcoming the Griffon and applauding Milai for her courage in the face of the direst challenge – Rantor. As she landed, Milai became aware of the fragrance of cornflower and honeysuckle, and the bright colours of the elves which pierced the gloaming but were softened by the natural wonder of the deep green forest. Si Lung passed overhead and called, “I return to the water for I long for its embrace. Thank your friends for me; I had not the time when I was with them. I journey to Nega for I have scores to settle, use the Orb if you need my assistance. Go with my best wishes and thank you!” With her final words the dragon beat down its wings and climbed into the sunset.
Having looked around, Milai was aware that Farion and many of Elluvtor’s folk had left and there was no sign of Elerienne. As the Griffon landed and Milai began to dismount, Gwendolyn said, “The Drow have tried to drive a force into the forest from the West and the Northeast. Farion and Elerienne have countered the threat; do not be concerned, they have things in hand.” Once again her thoughts were read, this time by Gwendolyn, “You cannot be everywhere Milai.” The Numenorean Queen’s smile was reassuring.
“My Lady, you must be hungry; I would be honoured if you would sup with me before returning to your friends.” Interrupted Celestar who appeared full of admiration; Milai sensed that she had made lasting friendships among the elven monarchy.
Milai turned to Reignor and Guirendol, “Thank you for not leaving me,” she said whilst reaching up to run her fingers down the Griffon’s strong beak. “The bards will tell of this encounter and how the Griffon-mark took to battle with the mightiest of all serpents.”
“I am sorry that we were not of more use.” Guirendol replied, bowing from the waist. Having lightly touched the Sylvan Elf’s arm, Milai turned and followed Celestar across the clearing. Next to her, Gwendolyn was gliding holding to one side the Palantir, through which Milai could view her friends at the top of the Minas putting an end to Tuar Chan.
“I believe your friends will try to change the gate so that it opens onto the Plane of Air. There may be danger in this action as all the known gates will shift, unless they are locked…” Gwendolyn was musing to herself rather than speaking directly to Milai. “I wish I were in Lastar’s Tower…I’m sure…yes, yes the Tome; now what did it say?”
“My Lady?” Milai was staring at Gwendolyn who had slowed and appeared to be searching her mind whilst staring deeply into the Palantir. Milai followed her gaze and saw that the vision in the Palantir had changed. It was as if she were entering a great tower and running through its corridors and down its stairs until a library presented itself. Then a book came into sharp relief as if lit by a bright candle; the pages flipped open wildly, then slowed to a more deliberate pace.
“There!” cried Gwendolyn. Milai jumped, then looked back at the Palantir but what she saw made little sense. “How fait shines upon you Milai, and upon us all!” Gwendolyn’s smile was infectious though Milai could not understand the source of merriment. “Come, I’ll explain…”
Arm-in-arm the new friends entered the camp of the Sylvan elves where Celestar fed them well. Many of Milai’s folk joined them whilst the numenoreans busied themselves with breaking camp. Sat on a vast golden silk rug, embroidered with falling leaves of all manner of autumnal colours, Milai, Celestar, Gwendolyn and a dozen other nobility ate hearty food and supped light white wine, made from elderflower. Gwendolyn continued to peer into the Palantir as she ate…“You need a feather from a Phoenix to counter the negativity!” Gwendolyn explained excitedly as if Milai would understand immediately. “The gate at Tiris is set to the deepest realms of Hel from where the dracolich was sporned. Breaking Hel’s influence will require a substance that represents the most positive force – a Phoenix’s feather. Once the influence of Hel is broken, the Gate can be shifted to the inner planes in the normal way.” Gwendolyn’s excitement was contagious, all listened intently although only Milai began to understand.
“I must get to my friends,” she exclaimed, realising that even if they had understood that they needed to break Hel’s influence, they probably did not know how. “Get me there Gwendolyn; I must show them before the Dragon sends them to meet Odin.” Milai’s relatives looked up nervously as she stood excitedly but they knew better than to try to dissuade her. Gwendolyn stood, lifted her gaze from the Palantir and dropped her lunch onto the rug. “Come!” Gwendolyn barked as she strode towards the numenorean camp. “Good luck Milai, I hope we will meet again soon,” called Celestar who stood alone at the centre of the golden rug as everyone busied themselves around him. Milai looked at him and smiled, “I’m sure we will,” she said, then turned and hurried after Gwendolyn.
“May all our Gods be with you my sister’s child,” said Ingrem with a tear welling in her eye. Others of her folk had gathered where Gwendolyn’s people had set the braziers alight. Reaching to put the Palantir on a pedestal in the centre of a pentagram marked by the braziers, Gwendolyn commanded, “Come here my dear; stand right there…that’s it. Stand still.” As Gwendolyn’s strangely melodic incantation began to have a soporific effect, Milai found herself falling into the Palantir…”