Morwath's Story

This story is set in our recent past, just after the defeat of Tuar Chan by the White Council and before the fall of the Efferendil to Orcus and the death of Walorin. The White Council failed to act on the vision but luckily the new party stepped in and helped to restore the Efferendil ;-)

“Morwath, we need your help…” the voice entered Morwath’s mind subtly, as if it were on the periphery of his consciousness. (Gwendolyn)

“Help your old allies; we need your counsel.” The plea continued but was barely heard above the carnage of battle. The pain of the Gith’s mental assault was too much to bear. Morwath succumbed to the numbing pain, letting his mind wander freely with no hope of defence.

“Help our folk Morwath,” the voice pleaded; this time, Morwath knew it to be Gwendolyn. What did she need? How could he possibly be of any help to her?

“You must flee to Amorsland, Walorin calls for you.”

Morwath’s mind continued to wander, desperate to avoid engagement with the Gith. He dreamt of watching a forest burn. All he could see was fire, death and destruction; he shuddered involuntarily as he looked across what he knew once to be a beautiful forest - Efferendil. The despondancy of the vision was reinforced as, parting the billowing smoke and striding through the piles of ash that were once mighty trees, the Demon came. It was surrounded by creatures from the lowest planes of the Abyss, each with cruel weapons and each its own mockery of prime material beings, some so decomposed that it is wonder that they move at all. Fear was palpable and the few that faced the onslaught faltered and broke ranks. In the centre of a thin line of elf warriors stood Walorin - a middle-aged half-elf, dressed in shades of green and wrapped in a rufous-coloured cloak. With arms outstretched in defiance of the approaching beast, Morwath noticed Walorin’s finery – rings with large gems, golden arm bands, and a platinum bracelet. The half-elf also wore silk, finely woven with gold and silver to form a mystical woodland scene, which extended from his breast to his arms. His blonde hair was partially plaited, through which was woven silver and gold thread. Walorin threw spells at the Beast, used wands and a staff to create all manner of effect on the enemy ranks. But nothing stopped their advance

“Friends, I must go.” Still reeling from the shock of battle, Morwath’s voice was barely audible.

“I must go now; Gwendolyn tells me of their urgent need.” He merely repeated what was in his head. Clearly the battle was won – inasmuch as it could be. No, they could not vanquish the Serpent. It has to be the end, for now. As ever, the Party seemed to have little idea of what came next. They had, somewhat unexpectedly, defeated the Samurai and would no longer need Morwath. Was that true or was he just making excuses to go? He was torn, it was true…No, they could make it away from here and could find Perion without him. There were more pressing matters to deal with. Matters the Party had overlooked for too long. “I am summoned away from here!” he shouted before, passing the artefacts he no longer required to Dafydd, changing into an eagle and launching into the air.

Ahhh the freedom of flight, the smell of the sea air and the release from the pressure of having to decide, filled Morwath with a new energy. The flight would be long and he would need to rest but speed was required. He sensed his friend’s pain. Something had gone badly wrong if Walorin needed his aid. Was the vision a portent or had it come to pass? Why did not Gwendolyn speak of it sooner? Was it a lie, planted by the enemy to split up the Party? Inwe had proven her power over Merc in this way and his mind was sorely tested by the Gith, leaving him vulnerable. No, something was wrong – Efferendil burned.

He did not have long to mull over his decision or glorify in the release from his earthly shackles. Morwath saw the approaching Dracolich, which was no longer troubled by the water dragon. He thought of turning around to worn his comrades but quickly realised that he would become yet another of the Serpent’s victims if he were to do so. No, they must find their own way to escape. Was that what this was about – escape? Doubt came flooding back to him; this time it was more palpable. When did he start to get these feelings? No, it was not doubt; it was concern that the Party was driving towards a solution which would marginalise all but the human race – not to mention the Druids. Can they not see that Ragnarack would cleanse the Prime? It would be a time that all races could start afresh, learn to live with one another and be at peace with nature…Was that true? Had he listened to the words of the Priest and the Mage for too long or did they have a point? Would the new Gods be as deborched as those that occupied Asgard and the Underworld?

Morwath swooped swiftly down the mountain, heading almost due west and staying just above the jagged rocks. He caught an unwelcome updraft and briefly stalled, before performing a wingover, slipping neatly down through adjacent still air, within feet of the sheer rock wall. No beast would be so agile he thought. Steeling a glance to his left, Morwath noticed that the Beast had indeed missed him. It was clearly focussed on the very top of the Tiris. Stretching his wings, Morwath slowed and angled his flight away from the rock face heading, once again, for the open sea. An eagle was not the form for flight over the sea and he would need to change again. A Herring Gull would be more appropriate – inconspicuous if nothing else. He landed on rocks that pretruded just above the breaking waves, about half a mile off shore.

Was it not here that Rantor claimed his first victims? Was it not the Sea Elves that informed the races of this new evil? Oh yes, and how the dwarves denied it. What did they hope to gain by denying the undenyable? Who knows what was in Dor’s mind…How quickly the Serpent became an unasalable scourge. Oh to harness that power, as Hel had done, and use it for the benefit of the Prime…Perhaps there was some sense to the musings of the Mage. He did have quite a mind after all…Yes, there may well be a dragon capable of balancing the destructive force of the Dracolich. Who would know of such things..? Walorin? Perhaps. A Dwarf..? Mandur..? Now that’s more likely. Did her father not invent the Orb..? Perhaps Mandur holds the key; after all, they believed her to be one of the three. Bringing a dragon to the Prime, capable of negating Rantor’s influence would surely offer Walorin the respite he needed.

In his new form, Morwath skimmed the surface of the sea, using the updrafts to stay aloft on outstetched wings, rising and falling with the swell. His course remained westerly but the wind blew fiercly from the south and Morwath was conscious that his vector was more to the north than he would have liked. He knew that the Drow controlled the sea lanes and that they would be plying their evil trade between west and east. He doubted the Drow would look twice at a mere gull but Morwath feared the minds of the Gith who were apt to travel with the dark elves. Occasionally, navigating by the setting sun and then by the stars, he would turn as far left as he dared and fly hard against the wind. He could not keep it up for long but he estimated that he would be just able to stay south of the main trade routes.

In the early hours of the second day of flight, Morwath found the stacks that he was looking for. The Sea Elves called them Tor Maddok - the Invincible Tower - and had long ago created a beacon of continual light on the summit of the highest stack. The beacon had been extinguished by the Drow but they could not break the stones. Morwath alighted on a low ledge, buffeted by the constant wind, and peered west. It was then that he saw the Drow ship. It was the size of a large galley but had been armoured and carried engines of war. No sails visible, he estimated that it had 200 oars all pulling hard against the writhing sea, heading directly towards Tor Maddock. Mayhap they return to pull it down, he mused. Mayhap they seek him…No, that would not be possible – even his comrades had no idea that he was about to leave. But the message came from Walorin, didn’t it? What if it were intercepted? What if it were a trap? No, no, this was no time for doubt. He had to find his friend and save him!

The vast ship moved closer, endangering itself against the rock-strewn, foamy shallows which surrounded the stacks. Still some one hundred yards from Morwath’s perch, the ship weighed anchor. He could see the Drow clearly; they had all manner of creatures with them: trolls, giants, devils and dreaded Gith. However, this was no mere trade ship, it was more important than that. Morwath saw several Drow gather round one of their kind. Stood in their midst was a tall, wiry elf dressed in blue, green, indigo and aquamarine (Magreb). His long, wavy, blue-black hair flowed from his head and crashed against his shoulders, trickling down his back. He had a hawk-like appearance and deep-sunken, dark-blue eyes. His skin was a shade or two paler than a normal elf’s. He was armed with long and short swords, which were curved at the end. He wore Brigandine of deep blue and green, weaved in a fluid pattern and studded with emeralds, sapphires, tourmaline and diamonds. The only lamé (strip of metal) visible was his Gorget which extended to protect his sternum, his clavicle and the front and back of his neck. The Gorget was rolled and patterned to represent a wave just before it broke. He carried a Bassinet under his left arm, open at the face and bedecked with long flight feathers of rare sea birds. Realising that this might be an important meeting, Morwath decided to fly closer – into the unused rigging – from where he could listen and hope not to be detected.

“We will wait for darkness before lighting one of the portside lamps. They will be here in a day or two – if not this eve…” The Drow at the centre of the gathering told his audience with an air of authority which demanded obedience.

“My brother brings us news and has a message from our queen. I sense that she wills our attack and I guess it will be to the West.” The Drow turned to look over his shoulder, scattering his dark hair to the wind.

“Where do you believe she will have us strike my Lord?” asked an older elf, similarly dressed in dark blue and green but less well adorned in finery.

“My guess would be Fontainver. We have crushed the Sea Elf’s fleet and imprisoned her within Nagrad, but she still has devout followers in that city.” As the Drow spoke he struck his fist into his open palm and the sun slipped below the horizon in a blaze of yellow, orange and red.

“Light the forward port beacon!” shouted a Drow who stood on the forecastle, a few yards away from his liege.

“That’s it my friends…Now, keep the Watch keen and double the guards, you never know what you might come across in this water.” The group broke up and Morwath watched them retire, leaving the vessel in the hands of a few Drow, Gith and a guard force comprised mainly of creatures from the lower planes. Morwath feared to move in case he drew unwelcome attention. He was also keen to discover what was in store for this leader of Drow and who would be conveying Inwe’s message.

Morwath did not have to wait long. Perched some thirty feet up in the rigging of the main sail, he saw the ship approach as the shout “Ship to Port!” cut through the wind. It was a frigate, built for speed and lightly armoured. The pilot was expert at manoeuvring the vessel around the stacks, despite the blast of wind which swirled around them. Hauling in the sails as it approached, the frigate made a sharp turn into the prevailing wind, removing its forward momentum entirely before turning parallel to the waves, alongside the great warship. The frigate was dwarfed by the Galleon, easily 3 times its size. Morwath heard the scream of the frigate’s anchor chain as it dropped its cargo into the black ocean and watched as the party of Drow reassembled on the main deck just beneath him.

“Hail Magreb,” a deep, resonate voice boomed from the side of the galleon where climbing ropes had been lowered to the frigate, “give me a hand here, some of us are less well versed at climbing in and out of these vessels of yours!”

“Garduil! Forgive me, I forget what a land lubber you are! Here, take my arm.” With that the tall wiry Drow lent over the gunwale and assisted a much more substantial dark elf aboard. This second Drow was as tall as the first but twice as broad. His skin was white marble and his stone grey hair neatly carved into a pony tail tied with a gold band. His eyes were blacker than any Morwarth had seen and the pupils so big that the whites almost disappeared. This Drow’s armour was mithril chain, on which had been placed all manner of precious stones in a decorative constellation.

“Yes, I do prefer solid ground” Garduil agreed as he pulled himself onto the deck, “magnificent aren’t they?” he continued peering through the darkness at the enormous chunk of granite which stood resolute against the constant barrage of waves.

“Yes, but in years to come it will be little more than sand.”

“Ahh, the same old Magreb - always arguing for the strength of the sea. It is true that we have used time to erode the strength of our enemies, ensuring we gain their power as we slowly bled the life out of them. But that is not the strength we need now. Our Mother believes that the time has come for more direct force to be applied.”

“Ahh, we guessed as much; where shall we strike, brother?” Magreb lent toward his brother conspiratorially.

“Fontainver!” came the reply, louder than expected, “You know, the place that the bitch has held against us for so long.”

“Good! We will make preparations straight away.” Magreb was greatly pleased.

“Yes, the time for decisive action has come. Move your fleet to the natural harbour known as Hagrung. We will move our forces to the north, marshal at Inverastor and will join you in six months”

“How many should I ferry south?” Magreb asked, clearly picturing the assembly plan.

“I need to move five thousand by sea; the remaining will be mounted for speed. We must attack at winter solstice, when the night is at its darkest. It will be coordinated with other assaults throughout the West.”

“Well, it has been a long time…Yes, we will be there. The fleet is ready and willing; the tide will be with us at midnight so we can drop your troops inside the city walls. I suggest your siege begins some weeks before to whittle down their supplies and divert attention away from the sea.”

“Yes, brother; that is exactly what we had planned. Now, shall we discuss the detail over a bottle or two of your finest wine?” The stocky Drow clasps his brother around his shoulders, reaching up to shepherd him towards the cabin entrance.

Morwath waited for the party to descend before moving back to the Tor. Once safely ensconced in a rock crevice overlooking the Galleon he took time to think. How can he get this intelligence to the Sea Elves? Well he had six months, so it was not really a priority was it? No…The Drow have a plan to finish Milai and gain dominance of the sea once and for all. But what were the other attacks the stocky one had mentioned? Again, Morwath sensed that Ragnarock was approaching. He waited the night and witnessed the two ships separating before dawn, the frigate heading north and the galleon northwest.

Where now…Efferendil? What good would that do without an army or dragon to relieve the siege? No, perhaps he should explore other options. The wind blasted and swirled around the Tor and the spray leapt up to dampen Morwath’s feathers. Why did the lost souls play on his mind? Would meeting them prove to be the answer? Regardless, Morwath knew that his destiny lay in Amorsland and he needed to travel there swiftly.

The flight was long and arduous. When he finally reached the cliffs, which stood proud against the crashing sea many hundreds of feet below, Morwath was exhausted. Alighting on an outcrop, which thrust both into the clean salty air and out over the furious turmoil below, Morwath struggled to control his breathing. Looking back the way he came, he remembered this place well. He was a mere sapling then, just into his eighties and a new arrival in the troubled West. It was from here – on this very outcrop - that he watched Milai’s ships break through the Drow lines, time and again, to keep Astorin’s Army supplied. Watching from this vantage point Morwath, amongst others, could see the naval warfare unfold – move and counter move, ramming, boarding and the seemingly constant hail of flaming arrows. It was then that Morwath realised he was in awe of Milai; she was obviously one of the three prophesized to be crucial to future of the Prime. But was that to prevent Ragnarock or to welcome it as an act of cleansing?

How did that change anything? Should he have left her behind with the others? She would probably be safer there, given what he thought he knew about Amorsland. Morwath began to doubt his actions again: he questioned his decisions, thought about how he came to be here and wondered again whether this was a trap. “Use your mind…Think clearly…You have no reason to doubt yourself…” a voice said in his mind. Was that his thoughts? He had often spoken to himself, in his mind, to rationalise complex problems and not rush to hasty, ill-considered action. However, this voice was not his…Was it?

The wind blew wild, at one time straight from the sea and the next from the land. He found somewhere to shelter and, deciding to stay in the form of a sea bird, he buried his head under a wing and took a much needed rest…Morwath saw three massive standing stones raised on a hill and stretching like great Golem’s fingers to the grey, darkening sky. The stones were matched by the peaks of 3 mountains which stood above all others in a long range which formed a jagged horizon some leagues away. As he watched, a red light emerged over the stones. At first it appeared as if the setting sun was being reflected in the snow capped mountains but he quickly dismissed that idea; no, the range appeared to run east-west and the sun had long since set. This was not a natural light. As Morwath watched, the red light intensified and became more menacing - gaining in depth but becoming no less bright. Morwath looked to the base of the standing stones and saw a dark cave entrance; he could not fathom the scale of the fissure until he saw a humanoid emerging from the darkness. He was dwarfed by the sheer size of the cave's entrance which was, in turn, dwarfed by the standing stones. By his reckoning, the stones must be over one hundred foot tall. The humanoid was dressed in garish colours, most of them dark and in a range of violets and reds. His face was gaunt and his hair was long, black and pulled into a pony tail. In his hand was a massive, two-handed sword, which glowed violet and blue illuminating the cave mouth. As Morwath watched, more emerged but stopped behind the first. They looked around as if expecting someone to arrive. As the numbers reached more than a score, a rider came into view emerging between two standing stones and galloped down the steep slope. The rider was so intensely black that he appeared to suck the failing light out of his surroundings. The horse reared in front of the group that were now stood at the cave mouth. There was obvious fear and all but the leader withdrew into the cave. There was a conversation but Morwath could hear nothing. The rider turned to look in Morwath’s direction and he felt pulled towards its darkness. “I know what you have. It once belonged to me and will do so again!” the voice whispered menacingly in Morwath’s mind. The dark rider moved suddenly, throwing out a skeletal hand that threatened to grasp Morwath’s throat as he was pulled into the vision.

Morwath woke with a start. He was bathed in pale dawn light which encased everything in a soft orange glow. Other sea birds had taken to roost amongst the rocky outcrups and ledges which covered the cliff face. Morwath had little idea of how long he had rested here but it was certainly more than a day. His stomach ached and he was desperate for human food. The vision came back to him and he shuddered. He knew the Pikes of Arnur and he knew well who occupied that domain now. Was the vision historic or a contemporary warning. He knew that the Gith were abroad and that Guerin desired the artefacts, so why dream of that now? Was it a warning not to travel North or was it encouraging him to persue intelligence about his enemy? Why had he not been able to see things clearly since he left Everinstar?

“The only way to save Walorin was to bring him aid,” the voice in his mind told him.

“Aid from Mandur seemed the most likely as, if Efferendil had fallen, who else would be able to help? Certainly no-one had the will in Amorsland.” He instinctively looked north and from his vantage he could see the vast desolate plains which stretched out across North Amorsland. Directly inland from his lofty position young, strong green trees formed the eastern wall of Efferendil pierced only by the River Cloof, which flowed rapidly under the vast bridge at Girenshon - scene of so many battles. It was there, in the moment of Silmar’s direst need that the elves of Efferendil and Milai’s folk came to the rescue. Was it not always the case that those who understood the natural balance of the Prime delivered victory where none could be hoped for?

“Was that not what he needed to do now?” the voice asked.

“Mandur understands the needs of the Prime,” it affirmed.

Morwath looked south and saw the headland which jutted out into the sea, to the north of Fontainver. He knew that the natural harbour the Drow had spolken of, Hagrung, was just beyond his sight over the brow of the hill which formed his southern horizon. And they were going to marshal their forces further north, nearer where Morwath stood, at Inverastor. Will this be the scene of the next battle? This time between Drow and Dwarf perhaps…

Beating his wings hard Morwath pushed off from the cliff, briefly descending before catching a thermal and rising swiftly out over the ocean. He banked and beat his wings a second time to turn north. Using the thermals that rose from the cliffs, he glided north scanning the surface for sight of friend or foe. By noon Morwath was well clear of the forest and left the relative safety of the cliffs. He would have to cross North Amorsland pass the Pikes of Arnur that he dreamt of and pass close to the Ratorain before finally arriving at the Dragorald – part of which he believed Mandur still to occupy. How would she fare? Malor had taken much of her land from Guerin, who had plundered it thoroughly. If she lived, did she still bear the Crown and was she as much of an influence as Milai, as the Party, thought?

Having changed into a Kite, pretending to scavenge across the plains, it wasn’t long before Morwath witnessed the turmoil which characterised Amorsland. Below, Malor’s forces held ground in well established fortifications, which cut across the plains east to west as far as the Levolyan. Orcus’ demons faced them, occupying temporary accommodation but in equal numbers. Whilst occasional skirmishes broke out, there was no open war. Behind Malor’s lines much of the land was put to work. To the north, armies of fell men tilled the soil, raised fortifications, built roads and made weapons. To the east, a new harbour had been built, large enough to rival Fontainver and a great walled city had been thrown up. In the harbour were Drow ships. To the west, on the great north road, another large city rose out of the plains. This city was huge, well fortified and occupied by a considerable garrison.

On his journey north, Morwath stopped occasionally to feed and rest briefly. He was not able to tarry long as the enemy were everywhere. Surely, Mandur could not have survived this vast siege. Would they have known if the crown had fallen into enemy hands? Did she possess a piece of the Gem. Mowath’s heart sank at the thought. Did he really seek out Mandur to help his friend or did he hope to persuade her to give up any of the Gem she might own? Ahh the Gem…

“Yes, I would say that it is part of the Sarnim Stone.” A man’s voice brought Morwath out of his reverie. His tousled, thick blonde hair cascaded about his face hiding his handsome features as he observed the beautiful deep green stone. He clearly could not meet the gaze of the dwarf that stood opposite him, with outstretched hand. Dressed in ornately constructed armour, of Grecian style, the man must have been three times the dwarf’s size. His words were uttered without much conviction as if he recited a long-told tale the ending of which is well known and not joyous. He returned the Gem and for the first time his eyes lifted and Morwath saw in them enormous strength and honour; he saw, truth, courage, dedication and integrity. Here was a man for all men. Here was a man born to lead. However his stunning, deep, dark blue eyes were lined with concern.

“I knew it, thank you Bavarik.” The Dwarf replied in almost a whisper.

“Wait Frastor, that is not a trinket for your darling Eminik to wear on her finger.” The man’s voice was firm.

“I know but it could not have come at a more welcome time.” The dwarf replied.

“You were not thinking of using it, were you?” The man seemed tense.

“Why not? It could save us from this cursed siege.” The Dwarf demanded. Pacing back and forth the man answered slowly and forcefully, “Listen to me, Frastor. If you use that Gem, you will bring down on us such evil that we will be completely overrun. Put it away until we know more of it.”

“Time will tell, Bavarik, it has not brought doom to us yet. There must have been a reason that Lastar returned his treasures.” The dwarf rubbed his beard, deep in contemplation.

“There was a reason, Frastor, but not one that would suit you. Things on the Prime are of little significance to those in the heavens. That is a mere trinket to the Gods but don’t be fooled by their disinterest. It is very dangerous and our places are not always guaranteed in Valhalla.”

“You have changed Bavarik; if I may say, the loss of Lastar has dulled your lust for life. You never were a doomsayer.” The Paladin stood, hurt and shocked with anger flashing across his face. He swallowed hard and walked away without uttering another word.

Ughh. Morwath shook, feathers once lightly covered by the drizzle ready again for flight. The vision was still real. How long had he slept in this bush? He was tired that was true but something pressed his mind. Would use of the Gem always bring doom? He doubted it. Perhaps it could only be wielded by someone like him; someone not influenced by good and evil. Perhaps in the quest for balance the Gem could be wielded safely. Provided if it was wielded against good and evil equally..? Yes. But for now it was clear who had the upper hand.

Keen to stay out of trouble, Morwath flew on to the Pikes of Arnur. The journey took a little more than two weeks, often flying into strong head winds. Morwath rested at night often changing into a mammal more appropriate to hiding on or under the land. He dreamed of the Elemental Planes, learning of the emerging war between Air and Fire. He also learnt that many from the Elemental Plane of Water had taken insult to the attitude of the Prime – Hatori seeks his revenge and is growing in power. It appeared that the Drow fed his desire. It will not be long before many from Water align themselves against Milai. What then? In every direction Morwath turned, it seemed powers were set against the Party. Perhaps it was time to forge the Gem and use it to address this imbalance. Perhaps Ragnarok would bring about such a release…Is the Gem meant to bring about Ragnarok?

It was early in the morning when Morwath first saw the Pikes. The three enormous digits broke out of the early morning mist and thrust into the clear sky above. Between Morwath and the standing stones stood a host of dwarves. They dressed in the garb of war, each dwarf ready to carry out his duty. Morwath knew that each will have his own reason to be there, his own reason to fight. A vision flashed into his mind…

Milai is on a cold, hard stone floor, naked. Curled into a foetal position, she weeps softly, resigned to her fate.

“This should be easy my daughter…What does your mind say? Oh, to stop the pain, to stop the misery and the cold solitude…Do you not yearn for the old days? Do you not desire the subjugation of all the elves? How they would worship such a beautiful daughter…” They could leave this land, returning over the sea; with the second born crushed could not Morwath lead the numenoreans. Would that be Ragnarok?

Morwath saw a Dwarf who rode on a great winter wolf in front of the host. His red hair was tied back and plaited, threaded with silver ribbons that hung down his back. His small helm was beautifully made - a simple dome with cheek and neck guards it was ornately decorated with a scene of a mountain range where dwarven kings stood proud. His burnished mithril coat was studded with emeralds, over which a breast plate of burnished gold had been drawn, carved in the shape of a large tear drop. His cloak was fine blue cloth (enhancing the colour of his eyes), trimmed with ermine and embroidered with a depiction of an owl. His legs were covered by riding britches of hard leather onto which has been fastened thigh and shin guards, both highly decorated and studded with gems. His boots were armoured with metal, though pliable enough for riding. His axes were across his back and he carried a crossbow. At his sides were full quivers, slung like bandoliers. His face betrayed not an element of doubt or concern and his voice broke the early morning air.

“Today we fight at the side of our cousins. Today we fight for the survival of the House of Dor. We have many wrongs to right and this is but one battle in a long war; a long road which will take us back to Dor and will see the death of the serpent that usurped our forefathers. We have waited for this moment for too long!”

Morwath looked at this dwarf and decided to muster his strength. He smiled for the first time in days; the relief was palpable – he appeared to have found the lost souls. The flood gates had been opened. He must make himself known and assist where he could. Winning the hearts of these stout folk could be the answer to freeing his friend from the Demon’s siege. He landed to the south of the host which were aligned just to the south and west of Stones. The southern most ranks were arraigned facing east to where Morwath could see a Gith Army marching across the rolling downs to meet the dwarves. Still some leagues away they resembled a large shadow passing across the green, summer enriched grassland slopes.

Morwath chose his moment well to return to half-elf form. He approached the leader from the south as the dwarf brought his wolf to the end of the front file of warriors. He seemed not to surprise the dwarf.

“I have seen your coming, half-elf,” the wolf was large enough to look Morwath in the eye. Craning forward in the saddle, the dwarf continued, “You bring that which was broken to this field. Do not be tempted Druid, my folk have failed this test in the past and we are still paying the price.”

“Who are you, dwarf? I have not had the same gift of foresight as you.” Morwath was perplexed. How had he seen into Morwath’s mind – he felt no intrusion?

“I am Enrodire, leader of what you call the Lost Souls.” He indicated the ranked mass of his folk with a sweep of his right arm.

“Is this where you are discovered or where you are destroyed?”

“Ahh, I wish I had that sight. I hope this to be the beginning of a road which ends in the demise of a certain serpent and the rebirth of a dwarven nation.”

Morwath cast an eye across the host; he saw a determined force united under one symbol – Ѫ.

“What is your plan, Enrodire?”

“We fight for the Pikes first, as we know what lies beneath,” this time Enrodire used his left arm, which also supported a large, round, golden shield. “Then we free the Dragorald, where Queen Mandur is being held, before tearing down the Ratorain Tower.” As he mentioned each objective he became more animated - standing in the saddle and pointing - finally shouting his plans so that his troops could hear. His raised voice was met with a cheer. So Mandur had fallen – had she a shard to accompany her crown?

“You might need some help to achieve these challenging objectives.” Morwath marvelled at the confidence in the face of almost certain death.

“If that is an offer, then I gratefully accept.” The Dwarf bent down and with outstretched arm clasped Morwath’s shoulder. “Perhaps elf and dwarf will fight together once more?” Morwath nodded, turning his head to view the enemy. “They are strong and the Gith have powers which would threaten to overwhelm me quickly.”

“Then see what you can do from here – there is always room for the influence of nature’s pure joy…” The dwarf laughed as he turned the wolf back to the north, still riding high in his saddle.

Morwath’s thoughts turn to the impending battle; drawn in, his mind wandered to the strategic context that has brought him here. Was he to bring this army to the aid of his friend? That seemed impossible now and besides this dwarf had a mind of his own. What was he doing here? At least he now knew that the lost souls were found, that they fought a common foe and not just in the interests of furthering good. But he had yet to find another piece of the Sarnim Stone. Was that all that was left? Had he already resigned his friend to his fate at the Demon’s hands? No! He must triumph here and enlist the dwarf’s help. What about the Dragon? Was there anything to that thought?

The two armies faced one another, spread out across opposing ridge lines. Would Guerin be here? No, that would take him from Sutur and his quest to kill Gwendolyn. Perhaps Malor himself would lead his army…Unlikely thought Morwath but he would certainly be keenly interested in any battle on his doorstep. Morwath realised that they would wish to draw the Gith to fight before nightfall not wishing to give the enemy the advantage of the dark. Better that they provoke the enemy into war.

Enrodire outlined his battle plan which was to execute within the hour. He explained that the idea was for the wolf cavalry to present themselves in Athena’s glory before the Gith, banners waiving and taunts shouted, feinting attack and provoking them to follow into the dead ground which separated the two forces. The first volley of bolts would blunt their attack and give time for the cavalry to break away to the south, down the slope as if fleeing. As the Gith charged – which Enrodir was certain of – the dwarf infantry would pull back westward, ceding ground slowly, giving time for the cavalry to circle back northeast and take up position on the high ground the Gith currently occupied. Here, some would break off and secure the entrance to Arnur. The Gith would be split and their leadership paralyzed by indecision. The dwarf cavalry would strike from the east and the infantry would charge to combat from the west.

The word was spread and preparations for battle were made. Morwath was presented a horse – one that the dwarfs had used as a packhorse and was not well suited for riding let alone combat. He soothed the horse and assured him that unless the fight was lost, he would not need to ride far. Enrodire moved amongst his men, showing his confidence exchanging jokes and banter and reminding them that they were chosen by the Gods to be here.

The sun rode high over the Pikes when Enrodire assembled his cavalry. The previous night had been cool and the grass was still wet beneath their feet. Here and there patches of mist remained in the dead ground, flattening the otherwise rolling landscape. What wind there was, ran out of the north, flowing down from the mountains, and had a bite to it. Using flags, gestures and a single horn blast the mounted troops rode off northeast, taking care to ensure they were in plain sight. As they departed, Morwath noticed the crossbowmen moving into position behind cleverly constructed defences, so well camouflaged that only their movement distinguishes them from the surrounding terrain.

In the sunlight Morwath and the dwarven cavalry crest the ridge and briefly look down into the valley below before returning their gaze to the Gith arraigned on the next ridge. Their approach had been noticed. The Gith drew up infantry and archers in ranks and marched down the slope towards Enrodire’s cavalry. From each of the enemy’s flanks charged medium cavalry and horse archers who looked to close swiftly. Behind the assembled mass of more than 3,000 Gith, more foul creatures hurried southwest to cut off Enrodire’s escape. Neither time nor need for taunts and flag waiving it seemed. Enrodire’s mounted archers fired their first volley into the ranks of the Gith infantry, setting many alight and creating pools of fire in the damp grassland. Their shots, however, did not go unanswered and Enrodire’s troops suffered their first casualties. The lightly armoured wolves suffered most and a few of the cavalry had to continue pillion.

Having rushed down the slope, Morwath dismounted in the valley below and cast Spike Stones across a broad swathe in front of the enemy ranks. Arrows came close but his spell survived. Enrodire’s cavalry wheeled right and plummeted down the valley, shielding themselves from the arrow fire. Morwath slowly walked up the slope in the face of the enemy now just 100 yards ahead. “No! Follow us, you’ll be slaughtered!” shouted nearby dwarves as they fled. The Gith infantry, nearly fifty score strong, charged into the valley, closing rapidly. Morwath turned wood when they were a mere 40 yards away and created chaos. Most Gith weapons and armour consisted of wood; thus, as many felt the pain of the sharp hidden spikes they also were stripped of their weapons. Those that managed to get close enough to Morwath to threaten him were cut down by the metal bolts shot from dwarven crossbows.

Next Morwath saw what he believed to be the leader of the infantry and focussed a whirlwind upon him. The affect was obvious – he was picked up and spun violently around within 30 foot column of air. Meanwhile quickly adopting a wedge formation, Enrodire elected to strike at the southern most sortie, ordering his men not to tarry but to wheel back to the south; thus, allowing a brief cavalry engagement and more fire to rain down on the Gith infantry.

The noise was deafening: wolves howling and barking, dwarfs shouting encouragement in maddened voices; all mixed with the screams of the dieing. Morwath recalled Milai in the battle at Girenshon. How beautiful she was: hair in golden tresses, shining silver armour, wielding her swords in great swift arcs, carving through the enemy like a warmed knife through butter. He saw her face clearly now, the beauty evaporating as her skin is flayed away like layers of parchment scorched by intense heat. Her malevolent face grinning manically at those she sent to Hell. What was this? Why such an image – she must be one of the three.

Bearing his Axe high in his right hand, Enrodire charged forward, rallying his forces. The cold wind burned his cheeks, as he filled his lungs and exhorted, “Do now what yea have promised me! Do now that dreadful deed that would save us from eternal damnation and slavery! Kill them swiftly then ride before them like the wind so our brothers can enjoy the continued demise of the Gith on this terrible day! For Athena!” Morwath refocused the whirlwind aiming it into the enemy ranks in a slow movement across his horizon. More Gith fell close by, victims of the withering crossbow fire. As Enrodire’s cavalry met the Gith’s the damage was quite spectacular; the leading echelons of cavalry were unseated, their steeds dieing beneath them, trampling the fallen to death. The dwarf’s charge continued, Enrodire deftly slipping his shield to his arm and raising his axe screaming, “For the House of Dor and for Athena!”

Suddenly, Morwath was engaged by the enemy directly, the explosive shock of combat resounded through his bones and broke his concentration. He recalled his first battle: the splendid array of colours that shimmered in the early morning sunlight - purples, indigoes and violets. What he knew now to be the main themes in a dark montage of colour. The Gith’s steeds, black as coal, were lathered with sweat beading white upon their flesh, their eyes were wide - bloodshot red – and their ears were pinned back. The pale skins of the Gith clashed with their garb making them appear almost luminous. The contrast could not be starker between two opposing forces: the glinting silver of mithril and highly polished weapons of Enrodire’s army against the deep dark colours of the night used by the Gith.

Axe blow after axe blow struck deep into those unfortunate enough to cross paths with Enrodire. The bloodied blade of his axe whirled wildly, cutting down many Gith at first contact, throwing great spouts of their dark red blood into the air. The smell of horse sweat, blood and metal filled Morwath’s nostrils and the deafening roar of battle threatened to put pay to all rational thought. The blood lust in Morwath’s heart was quelled by his desire for victory. Ducking beneath the Gith’s dark blade, he managed to raise both his scimitar – striking immediately – and his staff of the woodlands. The scimitar struck the Gith under his breastplate, plunging deeply into its stomach. Clearly distracted by the speed of this unexpected blow (from a man thought to be unarmed), the Gith’s return strike was wildly off target. Taking advantage, Morwath used his staff to summon a wall of thorns to the north and east of Enrodire’s charging cavalry, blocking any further pursuit from the Gith host.

Shortly after careering into the enemy’s vanguard, Enrodire wheeled his wolf to the right. Finding a gap, he drove through to the other side, dispatching yet another Gith back to Hel. Looking behind him, he saw his own lead element clash with the enemy, powering on to catch up with their Lord. As he turned, looking over his shoulder, Enrodire saw the enemy’s western phalanx quicken and turn to give chase. The infantry and archers faltered slightly, checking their pace to aim. The wall of thorns arrived just in time, breaking up the chase and smothering the first archers to let lose their arrows.

Morwath shouted involuntarily, “Disengage! Retreat!” and was relieved to hear the clarion call of Enrodire’s Captain’s horn sounding the retreat. Ducking under the desperate swing of Gith’s weapon, Morwath again struck out with his scimitar, slicing through his arm and upper shoulder. Facing his enemy directly, Morwath was pleased to see him struck by four quarrels, felling the foul creature. Now, free from combat and having unleashed the whirlwind to wreak havoc amongst the enemy’s ranks, Morwath mounted the loaned horse. Riding southeast across the front of the enemy’s van, Morwath saw the death of more of the enemy as the seemingly endless waves of crossbow fire struck into their massed ranks. Enrodire’s cavalry disengaged under the accurate covering fire of his mounted archers which now surrounded their Liege.

The enemy’s blood was up! They rushed on, despite the spikes, wall of thorns and the whirlwind, buoyed by the fact that Enrodire appeared to be fleeing. “Surely he has seen his folly they think. How can such a small force hope to best the Gith? We have known about them, we have seen them and we have put them to flight…” Ordering his men to continue south before turning east, Enrodire decided to keep the interest of the enemy by making u-turns, jabbing swiftly into the flanks of the enemy when individuals were exposed. Each time volleys of arrows smashed into his armour, mostly failing to penetrate. However, one such manoeuvre caused his steed injury; serious enough to prevent a repeated sortie and he quickly returned to the head of his force. Enrodire’s mounted archers had not been idle, returning fire and picking out the leading forces of enemy cavalry with some spectacular success.

Sweat rose on Morwath’s forehead. He saw the hand of a woman outstretched before him, beckoning him to the unseen beyond. He had gone numb; feeling only the rhythmic movement of his steed beneath him and even that seemed to be distant and insubstantial. The hand was replaced by the face of a high elf. Not unlike that of Astorin – long, distinguished, slightly effeminate yet with intensity uncommon in normal folk. Its green eyes burned with passion whilst, brow furrowed, the mouth’s tight lips were drawn in speech, revealing neat rows of sharp teeth,

“No father! They will not listen. How can you just sit here allowing all to cross your boarder? We cannot trust the Levolyans or the Men of Farass, they have let us down before and as for the dwarves of the Dragorald they are all gone; nothing but ghosts…” his voice softens,

“Father, we have to face facts. The only way we will hold on to this Kingdome is by reconciling our differences with Malor. He offers us the aid we so sorely need. He is not taken in by our enemies like the younger nations and is not as blind as the older races.” As the face turned to the left, Morwath’s sight followed its gaze across a clearing bedecked with spring flowers and alighted on the physiognomy of another elf. This time much older but there was a similarity.

Although no words were uttered, Morwath heard, “I wish now for Sorien’s counsel; oh, how I regret her loss. Why did you take her from me? Why did she not listen? Perhaps this burden proved to be too much and we should have left this world many moons ago. Why is it that the counsel in my son, which I would have despised but a short time ago, seems rational and sensible? Where is my daughter Melenwe? She has the wisdom of her mother.” The older elf looked up, to meet Morwath’s gaze, and said, “Ienwar, we wait.”

A shout went up from the left of Enrodire’s cavalry wedge. Brought back to the moment with a jolt, Morwath looked across to his left to see hundreds of wargs charging down the broken and rocky slopes, deftly by-passing the wall of thorns and untouched by the turn wood. Clearly plane-shifting, the dark shapes were only distinguishable by their rapid movement and size. Despite each bearing a Gith, the wargs were fleet of foot and looked likely to intercept Enrodir’s troops before they wheeled east to come up behind the advancing enemy. Enrodire gave swift orders to engage with his mounted archers and diverted some of his more capable cavalry to the left flank in preparation to engage the wargs.

A moment’s indecision gave way to anger at the prospect of failure. As Morwath veered left and accelerated to place himself in front of Enrodire’s covering force, he saw an incredible scene unfold. From out of the shadows, and the natural cover provided by the broken terrain and stunted flora, a multitude of dwarven warriors struck out against the wargs. With the advantage of surprise and the adoption of solid defensive positions, the dwarves enjoyed incredible success. In the first few minutes of battle nearly all the wargs were brought down, cut to ribbons by dwarven pole arms and battle axes. Seemingly oblivious to Morwath’s headlong gallop, the dwarves disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared.

The few Gith left chasing Enrodire split - driving cavalry east, up into the foot hills in the vain hope of forcing the dwarves from their hiding place. The main body checked its pace; perhaps waiting for more foot soldiers to catch up, perhaps waiting for the cavalry to flush out the dwarves. Enrodire wheeled his troops around giving time for his archers to send a series of sabots to rain down on the enemy whilst challenging the cavalry to follow him. The Gith seemed undecided – the wargs should not have failed. Where did these dwarves come from? How many are there of them? Has this half-elf from across the water more dweomer?

Taking advantage of their seeming indecision, Enrodire charged once again; this time he attacked the eastern most part of the pursuing cavalry, driving into them with full fury. His archers concentrated their fire on the western flank of the Gith cavalry, keeping them moving, not letting them regroup. Wary, the Gith cavalry broke quickly and turned back to the main body, climbing up hill once more. Outstripping his men to combat, Enrodire smashed once again into the retreating enemy ranks, breaking two Gith in half in the first brief encounter. His followers arrived shortly after, their wolves tiring quickly from the ascent and rocky footing. The battle was swift, neither side wishing to tarry in such difficult terrain.

Morwath found himself cut off from the dwarf cavalry and on the wrong side of the advancing enemy who had begun to move around the wall of thorns and the force. Morwath took time to orientate himself. The view was both spectacular and hideous. Surrounded by two embattled forces, death was all around him. The lower foothills were littered with the dead: wargs, Gith, dwarfs and wolves. The sun bathed the land in light shimmering off the dwarves’ armour and enhancing the emerald green of the rolling grassland stained with bright blood.

The blow came from nowhere. Unseated and promptly deposited on the hard stone, Morwath struggled to stand. Desperate now in defence, Morwath was quickly surrounded by enemy infantry. Using both scimitar and staff, to strike and parry and strike again, Morwath fended off assault after assault, but still they came. Another wall of thorns helped keep at least some of them at bay. His scimitar would not hold the rest and it looked as though help would come too late from the dwarfs. Surely the Sarnim Stone would lend its power in such a dire situation. Frastor had used the Gem in such circumstances and had received lethal aid beyond his imaginings.

Just as the Gith threatened to engulf Morwath, a horn blast from his right was swiftly followed by cries of alarm from the Gith and a hole in the enemy’s advance appeared. Morwath stole a glance and saw a dwarf standing on a large flattened boulder, swinging an axe in great arcs, scything through the Gith and their steeds near by. The dwarf’s beard was not yet full; he was shorter than the average of his kind and more slender. His hair was long and black as night, plaited in part and threaded with simple multi-coloured ribbons. His armour, shining in the sun, was well crafted and, despite its significant protection, did not look cumbersome. On his chest plate Enrodire’s symbol was embossed in gold. His rounded (greek style) helmet had nose and cheek guards which obscured the dwarf’s features. Yet Morwath could see that his eyes were black and small, deeply sunken, fixed between pronounced cheek bones and a noble nose. He smiled grimly, occasionally grimacing as his weapon struck home. Morwath saw that the dwarf was also in danger of being surrounded; he managed to release earthmaw on the softer ground between them, catching two of the Gith in a deadly bite which grabbed them and took them both into the ground.

More dwarves appeared from behind their hero and smashed into the Gith. Morwath had realised that these were from the main infantry that Enrodire had wished to remain on the ridge. Had Morwath’s plight caused them to break orders and put the plan in jeopardy? As the last of Gith close to Morwath fell, the young dwarf reached him.

“What mad-fool game do you play elf? Get thee to horse and flee!” Morwath saw the sense and suppressed the desire to argue; instead, he vaulted into his saddle, surprised the horse was still alive, and wheeled to the south. Looking over his shoulder he saw the dwarves press home their advantage.

Already retreating, Enrodire’s mounted archers flew south to get clear of the falling enemy arrows, giving more time to the Gith to regroup. Now completely disengaged the dwarf’s cavalry rode southeast to catch up with the mounted archers before wheeling left to the Northeast, outflanking the enemy. Morwath’s eyes were pinned on the Gith; half their infantry had broken ranks and were climbing up the slope towards the dwarf infantry under cover of rapid and accurate arrow fire. The arrows fell like a curtain of rain slowly moving up the slope, just in front of the foot soldiers. The dwarves that rescued Morwath flew west away from the withering fall of shot.

At this rate the dwarves would be overrun quickly. Free from the Gith, Morwath dismounted again; he waited until he could predict that the bulk of the enemy would be running down the eastern slope, at which time he cast transmute rock to mud. As he predicted, the Gith committed the rest of their force into the valley, sensing victory delivered by virtue of greater numbers. Morwath’s timing could not have been better. Placed high up the valley and encompassing the first ranks the spell worked perfectly and many Gith met their end in those foothills, buried in mud before they could shift to the ethereal.

Wheeling back north, Enrodire judged the distance and the time of his strike to perfection. His men formed up into a line facing West and, with a scream, spurred their mounts in headlong fury at the Gith. Oblivious to the arrows smashing down all around and on him, Enrodire threw an axe into the main body of grouped infantry, creating a ball of lightning which smashed through their ranks. The effect was devastating, smashing a hole in the middle of the nearest rank through which his cavalry, moments later, plunged. Too close to their own infantry for the Gith to risk keeping up the barrage, Enrodire’s cavalry drove a wedge up the middle of the foot soldiers whose ranks buckled. Shocked and almost decimated the infantry broke and ran, many falling into the mud.

Having been bested, the Gith went into frenzy. Despite their losses, the Gith still outnumbered Enrodire’s army significantly – a fact which was not lost on them. Unwilling to fall to withering arrow fire or fall into the mud, the cavalry regrouped waiting for the support of their infantry. Enrodire’s cavalry turned left, heading south once more, before they too were embroiled in mud, and plunged down the broad slope. No longer threatened, they wheeled in a sweeping arc left to head northeast towards the westernmost Pike of Arnur. Here they were joined by their infantry that had been hidden in the valley and proved so useful during the clash with the wargs.

The sun was past its zenith now; this furious game of cat-and-mouse has lasted less than an hour. Morwath’s arm was heavy from wielding his weapon. He was bruised and blood trickled from his forehead where it mingled with sweat and stung his eyes. His breathing was laboured and with every breath came pain. The spear tip, that unseated him so spectacularly in the hills, protruded from his side. He suspected some ribs were broken as there was an enduring, burning pain deeper than the point managed to penetrate. He took a moment to heal himself before spurring his horse in pursuit of Enrodire.

What did he expect to find in Arnur?

The Gith infantry marched forward, in a long deep column, one protecting the other from arrow fire (like a Roman Turtle) with pikes, halberds and gisarmes protruding from the carapace. The first volley of arrows from Enrodire’s archers had little effect. Enrodire’s plan had moved into phase two. He had ordered his dwarves to draw halberds and axes. Whilst the archers withdrew, west, down the slope, the infantry charged to combat. The clash was terrifying, the dwarves found it difficult to manoeuvre and extracting themselves from battle proved costly.

Oh the cold pain, the consuming darkness and the fear. When will the relief of death be upon me? How I long for the gentle touch of that cold skeletal hand that might stroke my brow before I succumb to the bitter, discordant tune of the dying. Where was the boat that would send me to the other side? A light broke the darkness – bright to an eye so accustomed to the night. Touching upon familiar objects – a chair, a table the wall - the glow was somehow foreign. A face appeared - she was beautiful. Was it Gwendolyn? No, it was an elf but not her. She was naked, cold and emaciated; barely able to stand she was luminous – brightly pale – in the gloaming.

“What now?” she asked in a whispered voice bereft of energy or will. Her hands were bound tightly and hung limply at her front.

“I have told you I know nothing of the one your master seeks. Now, kill me if that’s in your mind for I am little use to you and will die soon anyway…”

Morwath was jolted back to reality and, ducking under a scything blow from a pickaxe, sent a swift blow from his sword that, passing under the Gith’s shield, cut his foe in half. Riding swiftly up the slope once more his thoughts returned to her. Who was she? He thought again. Why are these visions coming to me and why now? He had little time to reflect as every action, every decision was vital. Why here? Why Arnur? Glancing behind he saw the first of the Gith cavalry to break through and crest the ridge behind him. Enrodire’s followers were exhausted, bloodied and battered, sick from the combat and stress. They caught their breath as their liege entered the cavern of Morwath’s dreams below the standing stone.

“It was here that our forefathers’ greatest ally – Astorin – led his followers to victory over the cursed Lich, Guerin. Here, allegiances between the free nations were renewed. It was here that the first sweet taste of freedom was offered to Amorsland. Do you not wish to taste that freedom again? Do you not wish to rid this land of our most cursed foe?”

Encouraged by the shouts of agreement Enrodire continued, “Come then and be prepared to fight the last battle!” Morwath, manoeuvring deftly, avoided the enemy hard upon Enrodire’s heals, arriving in time to hear the dwarf cajole his small force “Let us prepare ourselves for what may be our final journey. Trust in our strength, our righteous desire for honour and our love of Athena.”

The Gith were poised, relishing the sense of impending victory, as they watched Enrodire’s followers limp away, seeking cover on those cruel slopes. The Gith charged. Cavalry and foot soldiers alike sprinted down the slope, chasing after Enrodire’s seemingly beleaguered force. More than a thousand foot and several hundred cavalry gave chase on that early summer afternoon, with as many others scattered across the foot hills separated, dying or dead.

The trumpet blasts were deafening and the bright daylight was shaded by the sudden appearance of hundreds of arrows taking to the air. From the Gith’s right, up hill, great flaming balls of hemp are rolled down the slopes. From their left, fresh dwarves – previously hidden from view – charged into combat. In the distance and to the west, Morwath heard the gruff note of a dwarven trumpeter. Turning about, the apparently beleaguered dwarven infantry turned and charged into the mass of the shocked Gith. Arrows plunged into their ranks, cutting them down before they had a chance to defend themselves. “For Athena!” the dwarves cried repeatedly as they smashed into the enemy ranks.

Not yet clear of the enemy, Morwath’s horse was cut from beneath him. Rolling to one side, as his steed’s momentum carried it into his enemy, Morwath narrowly escaped a blow to the head and managed to regain his feat. Using his buckler shield, Morwath knocked away a halberd, thrust at his chest, and pushed his scimitar into the Gith’s neck. Twisting swiftly, he pirouetted between two more dark beasts whilst retracting his scimitar and using it to deliver a crippling blow with a stabbing movement to another creature’s torso. In repeated scything motions, Morwath brought down all manner of lightly armoured second echelon forces held behind the Gith lines, battling to keep from being overwhelmed. The dead piled up as the battle raged.

“Come into the light, leave your cruel mother; we will look after you.”

“But you will kill me for what I have done.”

“We know that you have been defiled; Elwe’s folk are strong and you have been through much.”

“Oh, why am I so forsaken? Where do I belong?”

“With us, my sister. You are from the house of Erewen, daughter of Elwe, sister of Amradire the father of Aerandir. Your blood is true – few could have survived the attentions of our enemy for so long.”

“Amradire chose another path; why am I so lost?”

“His path was true - a calling of love so pure…Not one corrupted and spoilt by doubt and loathing. He did not love you, Elerienne, he used you”

“No! Why would he use me?”

“He is the enemy.”

Enrodire was suddenly next to Morwath, “If you wish to find Mandur, you should come with me,” he gasped as the effort to strike another blow sucked the wind from his lungs. Morwath assessed the situation quickly – how did Enrodire get here? He must have been two hundred yards away, at the entrance to Arnur. Surrounded by fire and the dead, almost overrun and sorely hurt, Morwath helped to conduct a fighting withdrawal up the hill, towards the entrance. Enrodire, parrying with his right hand, defended Morwath, whilst the druid healed them both.

A second charge by Enrodire’s enlarged force smashed into the Gith cavalry whilst the increasingly accurate arrow fire cut through the massed infantry ranks. The battle was poised on a knife edge. With the element of surprise used up and the impact of Enrodire’s cavalry blunted, Morwath believed all to be lost.

Enrodire shouted to his small force gathered around the entrance, “We must disengage and form a defensive wall further up slope!” Swiftly his followers saw the sense in the plan and fought hard to untangle themselves and, once free, gained the high ground. Enrodire drove his cavalry across the face of the infantry, forming a barrier between the entrance and the Gith support forces.

Still wounded and tired, Morwath freed himself and jogged up the slope, keeping a wary eye on his pursuers. Looking down, across broken and bloodied ground to the enemy, Morwath noted Enrodire’s forces were still outnumbered. However, they had split the enemy, created confusion and achieved the objective of securing the entrance to Arnur. Enrodire dismounted and took place at Morwath’s side as he came close to the entrance. His face gave nothing away – he was ready for death if that was his fate.

Enrodire’s eyes turned to his followers gathered around, “You have fought well; you have secured your place in heaven. We will walk together under mount Olympus and discover the Gods’ metals and stones. On this day, let us remember that we did our part and let us send these, our bitterest of enemies, back to the gates of Hell from whence they came. In the name of Dor and for Athena let us rid this place of the Gith once and for all!” With that, Enrodire charged toward the great iron doors which marked the entrance to Arnur below the massive standing stones above.

The dappled light of the early summer sun broke through the bright green young leaves of the maple and elder, surrounding the glade, and sparkling in reflection off the surface of the fast flowing brook which tumbled over and around lichen covered rock, alighted on an elf. His music at first competed with and then complimented the sound of the water as it broke, eddied and whirled in its hectic course downstream. As if washing the land, the detritus from autumns past and the freshly deceased issue of the recent spring was carried swiftly away. His song was angelic – pure, innocent and carefree. He sung in a tongue long forgotten, only recognised by the ancient oak and the young rock freshly turned in the rapid water. His garments reflected his surroundings: rabbit fur, deer skin and flax linen. Ageless, his features betrayed naught but concentration in his effort to recall and form the words of his song. Cross legged he sat on the river bank, lyre across his leather clad legs plucked by a silver plectrum held firmly in his right hand. The fingers of his left hand moved rapidly across the fret to capture each note, releasing it in staccato fashion echoing the rippling of the water. His eyes are pure azure, deep and rich; his hair was hues of gold.

As if surfacing from a deep dive in dark water, Morwath’s senses returned in a rush – the noise of battle, the smell of death and urine, the dull deep ache in his back and the fresh stabbing pain in is chest.

Enrodire stepped closer; keeping Morwath’s right flank occupied he shouted, “Let us enter the home of my forefathers, exiled to this wondrous, beleaguered land!” The voices continued to reverberate in Morwath’s mind. At the edge of consciousness, he foughts on; almost indifferent to his plight, his only concern was meeting Mandur. Would she have a shard? Where was her crown? They approached the great gates. Enrodire reached for a chain at his neck and pulled out a large black key – the like Morath had seen before – a key of Kagrash. Enrodire saw the recognition in Morwath’s eye.

“Ahh, you know of these, Druid…Yes, there are many; this one leads to the Dragorald.”

“And the entrance is here?” Morwath could not fathom the distance that the dwarves must have dug to get to the Dragorald.

“There are many secret paths, most of which are lost. This one may be convoluted but will ensure Malor loses track of us.” A smile broke through his full beard.

“Ahh yes; where is Malor? I would have thought that he would be very interested in this battle.” Morwath was still struggling to reconcile his vision of the Pikes and Enrodire’s plan.

“I’m sure he would if he were here. A classic mis-direction my friend; perhaps the Gnomes would be proud of us,” he clasped Morwath on the shoulder. “Yes, we managed to make Malor believe that we were about to move against his trade routes with the Drow. Instead we brought our force here.”

“How did you come here unobserved?” Morwath couldn’t clear his mind.

“Hidden in plane sight…It took a while but we managed to move small parties across the mountains, using some old, long forgotten routes.”

As the key entered the lock, Morwath saw Mandur sat on a throne of platinum. Her long black, curly hair flowed to her waist, tumbling over her shoulders and ample breast. Morwath realised that no crown adorned her head, instead a band of platinum kept her hair from her face. Mandur was old but was renowned amongst dwarves for her beauty and strength, neither of which was fading. She had led her people well, with honour and fortitude and was rightly venerated. Sat on her throne and dressed in the bright colours of the precious metals and stones her folk had discovered since the beginning of time, she was impressive. As Morwath watched elves from the noble houses, each recognised by the colours and symbols they wore, knelt before the Lady Dwarf presenting her with simple gifts: a large pin for mending sales, from the Sea Elves, an acorn from the high elves of the Vikriain and so on. Next came men; the first was an oriental Morwath did not recognise. He was dressed in ceremonial armour and a deep green Kimono. Morwath knew enough to understand this was a Samurai but was not from the East. He was followed firstly by someone Morwath knew to be from Gorgoroth and then by a Numenorean Morwath did not recognise. Was this a future that he was not part of? As Mandur rose and bowed to those honouring her, Morwath saw something which struck to his very core. She was holding the Gem, intact and luminous – the Sarnim Stone not seen since the first age. It seemed to be a mark of her office…Where was this going?

The key seemed to have worked as, by the time Morwath focussed on his surroundings, the great iron doors were open. The dwarves were prepared: setting up great shields in case of opposition, producing lanterns in case the passage beyond was not lit and organised themselves into an attacking formation. In their midst Morwath crouched behind raised buckler and with scimitar in hand. Even Enrodire looked nervous. What had the enemy in store for them they wondered?

Dor Destiny Poem {already on wiki}

What of the light, the sun, its faded

just as the crystal is spread and jaded?

But what of the sword, its platinum plates

to steer Destiny, thee of shapes?

My Lady would not change easily,

as you weave the crystal freely.

But don't you see that we are set

with the glow of the sword Regret.

But life, for you, would slip away

if you were given the sword Decay,

But Destiny, whom knows one true,

Would give this crystal to so few.

For some of us, the light would shine

to radiate off our decline,

While the crystal is built, its many facets,

who of us can change the sets?

The platinum though, seems threatening,

but to some it’s of a dream,

And Destiny, whom beside we walk

will show us the sword and whom we stalk.

Be them with this platinum sword

to pace beside a foe so near,

Or be it with the crystal matrix,

To path our future, forever fixed.

The song returned to Morwath over and over again as if rehearsed by children. So what part did Mandur and the three females play? Who would wield the sword if that was where the gem was destined to be? Why the dwarves? No that cannot be…It is needed here and now and by the elves…Ahh that was the point, was it not? It was needed by the elves – not men and certainly not dwarves. Morwath must use it to defend his friend. Surely he must not take it to Mandur? Was it to be a female elf that wielded such power? Milai, Ellerienne…Inwe? Would that not keep balance between alignments?

“You tarry my friend; do you not wish to enter the labyrinth?” Enrodire’s expression showed keen interest. “What is on your mind?”

“You mean to find Mandur here?” Morwath’s doubt returned. Were the lost souls truly prophesied to assist in this quest or was it one of Lanzi’s fantasies?

“Of course…My fears are that she is incarcerated deep within, somewhere between here and what was left of the Dragorald. We need to free her and take her north.” Enrodire cast a glance to check the progress of the battle beyond the entrance. Turning to a blood soaked dwarf next to him, Enrodire barked some orders and pointed down the slope to where the battle still raged.

“Find her then but I need to help my friend - Walorin. He is holed up in what remains of Efforendil fending off the attentions of Orcus by all accounts.” Morwath sounded increasingly desperate.

“It is not safe to return South; you rightly say that Orcus holds the Forest and as you can see Malor holds the North. Come with us; I’m certain Mandur would wish to meet you and learn more of what you carry. She would also wish to know of the elves and whether we could be of assistance…”

“I fear you are too few.” Morwath’s eyes were down cast as if in deep thought. “Perhaps I was meant to help Walorin personally..?” He mused to himself, the doubt crept back as a long shadow stretched out before the setting sun.

“We are not as few as you might think. But I fear we would not be able to do much to free your friend as the journey South would be too long and we would be harassed constantly. No, we would need Milai’s help to move our Army swiftly but we have not heard of her since her fleet was destroyed by the Drow’s pet.” He looked again down the slope.

Morwath apprised the Dwarf of her rescue, the elf meeting and the demise of Tuar Chan. Enrodire listened intently looking fully into Morwath’s eyes as if in wonder and disbelief.

“You are obviously great indeed friend elf. And your friends appear to be the new White Council oft foretold. I am heartened by the news that Milai’s folk rebuild their fleet at Fontainver but would be surprised if they have all the supplies they need.” Enrodire scratches his beard,

“Are you certain that you will not accompany us? There is much more I would learn.” Morwath considered his direction for a moment, “And I from you, friend dwarf, but I fear I have taken a wrong turn – a welcome one, but wrong nonetheless. When you find your Lady tell her that there are others of power in the land which would restore balance and that we would seek her urgent counsel.”

“I will, of course.” Enrodire cast a wary glance behind once more, “we must go before the tide turns against us. Farewell then elf friend.”

“Before I go, you need to be aware that in five full moons from now the Drow will land a large assault force north of Fontainver which intends to meet with a land force already on Amorsland with the intent of crushing the sea elves once and for all.”

“Ahh the rumours are true. Can you warn Milai?” The dwarf’s concerned face turned again to study Morwath.

“I can – I hope; what can you do to disrupt the attack?” Morwath leant close to the dwarf, and wore an intense expression.

“Our best, elf; our best is what we’ll do…Now you need to leave before we have to shut these gates. Once I find a Palantir, I will talk to you.” He encased Morwath’s shoulder in a thick muscular arm and guided him towards the top of the slope which fell away from the entrance.

“The Palantirs are not safe; the enemy listens to everything.” Morwath’s demeanour became conspiratorial.

“Ahh then, we need a code to verify we are who we say we are – something not to fall into the enemies’ hands….You know the elf verse of Aerandir and Meghan?”

Morwath raised an eyebrow, recalling their recent adventure within Crag Un, “I believe so – it is written on the walls of Minas Tiris.”

An extract from a longer poem - Aerandir Poem

Of Aerandir and Meghan

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.

Enrodire noded, “Yes it is, written by my forefathers to honour the elves and to remind us all that there is something more to life than a quest for power;” the dwarf’s eyes misted, “anyway, I will ask for a letter in response to two numbers – the first will identify the line of verse and the second the letter within that line. Do you understand?”

“Yes, we have seen something of this simple subterfuge before.”

“Good. Remember the opening stanzas well, you’ll need them I’ll warrant. Do not write it down! We cannot afford it to fall to our enemy. Good luck, my friend and farewell.”

Morwath’s journey south was not without trouble. He adopted his usual form of a bird of prey: capable of long flight and possessing keen eyesight and sense of smell. Yet he often thought that he was close to being detected. The enemy were not pleased with Enrodire’s obvious success in surprising his adversaries, overcoming a far stronger force and gaining entrance to one of their most prized dominions.

Could he have found Mandur? Did she have a shard and was she still in possession of a crown? Morwath began to regret his decision to leave…No! He had to have confidence, despite what the voices said. The voices which Morwath knew to emanate from the shards: second guessing his decisions, playing on his unconscious, undermining his confidence. Clearly, the souls of the North were no longer lost and had entered the fray. It was not his concern whether or not the timing was right. But he knew they would never be persuaded to leave their quest to aid an elf lost in a besieged forest. Besides, what help could Mandur provide? She herself was downcast, imprisoned at best and at worst…who knew? No Morwath would have to bear his burden and offer what assistance he could alone.

More cautious now, Morwath spent much of his time hiding, adopting various animal guises, sacrificing speed for stealth. He bypassed the frequent skirmishes that he saw in a land completely at war. Eventually he arrived at the northern borders of Efforendil. He recognised the forest well and knew the various tracks and paths which would bring him to his friends hideaway. Here, on the edge of the forest Morwath changed into a pine marten, perfectly adapted to the deciduous forest. He remembered the dweomer the elves had spent many moons invoking and which protected this land still from enemy onslaught. How beautiful this forest was, unsullied and whole. Something was wrong however. There was no forna. The animal tracks existed but had begun to become overgrown. Morwath sensed the fear in the forest, like some great impending doom. His paced quickened as he scurried through the undergrowth. It was then he saw the Drow. Why did it surprise him? Of course the Sylvan magic was nothing new to them – they were of the same blood. Were they not just the other side of the same coin? So, the Drow had come to Efforendil. What had happened to Sorien’s folk and the descendants of Nenye? Surely Walorin had not allowed this?

Morwath continued along his path, barely needing to think of the direction so little had changed. At all times he avoided the host of Drow he encountered. They seemed to be searching for something without really understanding what it might look like. Daring to overhear their conversation Morwath occasionally used an appropriate animal form to spy on the Drow.

“Drasg! Where shall we search now?” the tallest of the Drow that Morwath had encountered asked a comrade.

“We keep moving south slowly. Is it time for the dweomer? We need another sacrifice.” Drasg was somewhat preoccupied with his surroundings. He turned his face into the wind to smell the air as a carnivore would to sense his prey. His movements were slow and controlled; his lithe, supple form ensured his passage was silent as he traversed a glade. “Here; here is the entrance my friends. We cannot see it but it is here. Bring the damned, we shall spill its blood in this glade tonight to honour our Lady and then see if we can reveal their hiding place.”

Morwath knew it to be true. Walorin hid the entrance to his dominion well. Clearly not well enough to fool this band of Drow. Morwath could not wait for the sacrifice and the discovery of his friends hidden halls. He counted five: two were leant on an old oak to Morwath’s left; a third was next to Drasg in the centre of the glade some ten feet from Morwath on his right; and the fifth squatted in the undergrowth further away in the forest. It was this Drow Morwath sensed he would have difficulty with.

The glade was beautiful – typical of Walorin to have chosen such a place. The land gently rose from left to right – east to west – as Morwath saw it. Entering from the north, he smelled the willow herb, dandy lions and primrose which grew in abundance all around. The large gap in the forest allowed the sunlight to penetrate and created an intense, bright green palate on which had been painted splashes of yellow, red and purple. To his right, from the west, flowed a burbling brook which cascaded down the slope, zigzagging between the roots of the black oaks which grew abundantly in this part of Efforendil, before dropping ten feet over exposed rocks into a clear pool below. Some fifteen feet in diameter, the cool inviting water bubbled, eddied and rippled before continuing its journey down the slope to the east.

The Drow brought forth their victim from the depths of the forest to the east of the glade. It was a sylvan elf - female although it was difficult for the Druid to tell for she was clothed in rags, bound, bloodied and hooded. Judging his time to perfection, Morwath cast Nature’s Charm, successfully beguiling the Drow. Using his surprise well, the Druid leapt across the glade and lifted the female elf, carrying her into the forest to the South before the evil elves could react. Stuck in the glade, the Drow could not give chase.

Morwath felt the rapid breathing of the bag of bones in his arms. She was Sylvan, one of Sorien’s folk, malnourished and maltreated. After a mile or two, Morwath stopped and drew breath; he laid the lady on the soft forest floor and uttered the oft spoken words of healing. “You will recover my Lady,” Morwath whispered, “sleep now, be calm.” He knelt and cradled her, uttering more words of healing although he sensed that the would was more than skin deep. How many had the Drow executed to overcome the sylvan power in this land? If that was balance the future was not what he expected. Life and death was natural; so much death was anything but…Was he missing something? Did this Prime need cleansing? Was this the start of it and did he have the stomach for it? So much death…No, nature was as much about life – this was no balance! He was here to save life was he not? Yes, to find a friend who would aid him in is quest and save life…

“Who art thou?” The frail voice emerged from Morwath’s cloak where the elf had been nestled tightly.

“I am Morwath Stormbringer, Druid friend of this land.” His voice held more confidence than he had expected. “Who are you, Lady?”

“I am Melenwe, daughter of Sorien, Princess of Efforendil.” The voice had strength now and the breathing was less rapid - Morwath was captivated.

“My Lady, I must get you to safety.” Morwath whispered almost to himself as he lifted the body easily and began his trek to the south. “Does Walorin have another entrance, my Princess?”

“Near the cloof, Druid-friend,” she whispered, “though they search the banks well.”

“That I doubt not.”

Morwath carried the Princess south for three leagues before nightfall, taking his time and resting when the opportunity arose. He knew it to be many miles to the cloof and he would avoid the bridge by edging further inland. They must rest.

“What has happened to your folk my lady?” Morwath asked the elf once he had prepared camp, dressed her in his spare clothes and broken bread with her.

“They were slaughtered by the Demon. We were forsaken by our hero Mercantire and at that moment we were lost.” Her head remained low, studying the groun as it had since Morwath discovered her.

“Then he is dead…”

“Not dead, Druid, one of them...” her eyes met his, glistening in the moonlight, “Turned by the Drow Witch’s dweomer. Oh yes, I was cast aside in his desperation to find another.”

How could anyone cast this beauty aside? Who could bear to do her harm? Their eyes were locked briefly in recognition of each other’s pain…and there was more.

“There are many who would not forsake you so readily my Lady.” It was Morwath’s turn to study the ground.

“Do I still beguile? Of course not…How kind thou art.”

“My Princess, you are fairer than any spring dawn and gentler than the touch of blossom blown in the warm breeze.” There was no doubt; here was his heart.

“You honour me, Druid; perhaps in better times, when I am better rested and we are safe, this conversation could take place once more? Now I must rest…Will you watch over me?”

“Of course my Lady, nothing will harm you on this night.”

The next day they set forth for the river. Melenwe, much stronger now, was able to walk and they passed the time making pleasant, whispered small talk. It had been years since Morwath had felt so content. To forget the troubled times and bathe in her beauty, knowing that her interest in him was genuine. Having washed in the crystal springs of the forest, even the dowdy Druid’s clothes he had wrapped her in could not detract from her beauty. Passing without trace they moved through the forest swiftly and unnoticed. Melenwe used the evenings to fashion a bow and arrows with which she could hunt. They journeyed unmolested until they reached the northern banks of the River Cloof.

Suddenly they were surrounded. How they came upon them Morwath could not fathom but here they were. The relief in Melenwe’s eyes was obvious, for here were her kin. Hidden by Walorin, safe from the Drow, they appeared in the hundreds. It seemed as though the young saplings that grew along the banks of the river came alive and were transformed into elves. Of course Morwath was able to hide men in an illusion but this seemed more real; Walorin’s work no doubt.

They were led towards a stand of large oaks some way back from the edge of the river. In the heart of the stand they passed through a door of some kind and found themselves in a corridor leading down, which seemed to be carved out of a living tree.

“Walorin, my friend, I am truly glad to see you alive!” Morwath said. He stood in a hall, not much more than a 15’ cube, decorated with all manner of mythological scenes – Odin, Thor, Frey, Freya, Fenris, and Loki. The scenes changed, almost imperceptibly as if coming alive momentarily before returning to the maple wood from which they were carved.

“Well, friend Morwath, it has not been through the enemy’s lack of trying; I think they would like little more than to visit me in the halls of Hel.” A middle-aged half-elf, dressed in shades of green and wrapped in a rufus-coloured cloak, replied from the middle of the room. He stepped forward with his arm extended in a manner of greeting. Morwath noticed the finery – rings with large gems, golden arm bands, and a platinum bracelet. The half-elf also wore silk, finely woven with gold and silver to form a mystical woodland scene, which extended from Walorin’s breast to his arms. His blonde hair was partially plaited, through which was woven silver and gold thread.

“As you can tell I received your message, although my journey here was a little tardier than I had anticipated.” Morwath clasped the outstretched arm in a brotherly greeting. Walorin’s deep green eyes seemed to acknowledge more than just Morwath’s presence.

“I am very grateful, we need all the help we can get. You see, we are once again surrounded. Orcus in the East and South and is aligned with Malor in the North. My request for help was precipitated by the fall of Haverel to a combined army of evil, the like of which has not been seen since the First Age. Efferendil is all that is left.”

“I fear the enemy know where I am – they are able to discover the whereabouts of something of great evil that I bear.”

“I have seen it, Morwath; you have others of Lastar’s artefacts, do you not?”

“I do, but it is that particular gem that has the most power; indeed, I am in constant struggle with it for possession of my own mind.”

“And what does it want of you?”

“It wishes that I use my powers against the elves of this land, claiming that they are the ones that bring war to the natural world and, without the meddling of Lastar, the Prime would have been unsullied.”

“Some of its message appears for sooth; however, as you know, the elves are far from the enemy.”

“Do not worry, Walorin, I still have my mind. How does your work fair?” Morwath nodded to the shifting images.

“Aah, not as well as I had hoped. The messages come through and many I am able to interpret and direct but I struggle to defeat the enemy’s ability to manipulate the signs. Since we discovered that this tree was a gate to the outer planes, or more correctly a part of the Tree of Life, I have worked with it to decode the messages which fly across the branches and out onto the planes. Unfortunately, like so many other things, the understanding that I lack appears to have died with Lastar. As you know, there are so many parallel mythos, each with their own and often overlapping belief systems, it is hard to know where to start. I have chosen the Norse mythos, as it is close to home but have little control over it; indeed, the Drow know far more of this than I and the artefacts themselves, corrupted as they are, manipulate what is seen.”

“Then perhaps I can help? It might be easier to start with another belief system, one as old but long forgotten by most.” Morwath appeared animated, leant forward and stared at the images as they moved.

“Which would you suggest?” Walorin appreciated the genuine interest.

“The Rodrus dwarves remember it well enough and have passed it onto some of the House of Dor. It is a Pantheon of Gods born to a Father named Zeus. They could better describe it; however, from what I have seen, the dwarves of the House of Dor, that live to the north of Keffendir, are guided well by their gods.”

“That is intriguing. I get little that has not been bent and twisted by Loki or his minions, and then there are the lies of Hel and her witch. It is as much as I can do to separate truth and lies; on almost all occasions, I fail to ensure that understanding passes to the recipient. You have met with the lost souls of the north?”

“That is a long story Walorin, my trip here was not direct!”

Morwath spent a month with the Sylvan elves and Melenwe in particular. He met infrequently with Walorin who seemed preoccupied with learning of other mythos. When Morwath did return to his hall, Walorin seemed distracted, wishing only to talk of other mythos, the paths and the messages which seemed to be in almost constant flow. Melenwe held his heart and she seemed to be taken with the Druid. She would often seek him out to talk of trivial matters which they both delighted in, if only to take their minds off the inevitable attack. However, the day came that they had been dreading soon enough.

News that the enemy had broken the secret glyphs and wards which protected the Forest for several ages, travelled to Walorin’s home like a wave crashing against the shore – enevitable but shocking nonetheless. Their few scouts reported that the northern borders were breeched and the forest was alight. The Drow came in droves revelling in the destruction but there was worse, much worse…

They stood on a ridge line in the heart of Efforendil. The Sylvan elves arraigned along the ridge were typically dressed in colours of the spring forest, common to many High Elf races, and they bore the mark of a river flowing through a deciduous forest – Melenwe’s folk. As Morwath watched, the ram-like face of Orcus peered out of a smoky gloom-laden battlefield in front of them, on which was strewn hundreds of elven dead. As the sun set slowly in a blaze of red, orange and yellow, Orcus’ huge frame came into view, surrounded by flame and smoke, and holding aloft his hideous ‘wand’ – a massive mace with an oversized human skull cemented to the top. His words were unrecognisable but in response the ground opened and the bodies of the dead elves fell into the abyss. Next to the Demon, stood a humanoid figure dressed in a long grey-black cloak with hood up hiding a face that Morwath knew not to be there. The figure was the Lich, Guerin, who watched every movement of the gigantic beast next to him. His sword, Rakos, was drawn and faintly glowed a neon purple light which failed to pierce the blackness surrounding the Demon. The 7-pointed crown, which sat squarely atop the Lich’s cowl was the brightest blue, contradicting the darkness.

Suddenly Morwath could here the enemies’ conversation as if they stood next to him.

“One has arrived recently and has many of the artefacts for which I search.” The disembodied voice hissed from under the cowl.

“Yes, he hides with the elf-mage, just beyond my reach.” The Demon looked briefly down to where Guerin stood before returning his gaze to the forest.

“Aah, my Lord, thank you. I will use the ancient paths to find him; he has an item of particular importance to our cause.”

“Indeed, that ancient stone should never have been lost – the meddling gnomes will be brought to account.” More flame and smoke billowed forth from the Demon, obscuring the Lich from Morwath’s view.

“Yes, my Lord. I will enter their halls soon, although they will not know it.”

“You have a request from the Drow Queen, I believe?”

“My Lord, as ever, you are well informed. She would have me find the friends of the one who hides here.” The Lich pointed to the forest which stood unrelenting before them.

“All in good time; find this Morwath and bring him before me. He may have more to offer than just a shard of a gem.”

“As you wish.” The Lich bowed and strode toward the deep green tree line where the elves stood.

The forest burned. All Morwath could see was fire, death and destruction; he shuddered involuntarily as he looked across what was once a beautiful. He stared despondantly as, parting the billowing smoke and striding through the piles of ash that were once mighty trees, the Demon came. It was surrounded by creatures from the lowest planes of the Abyss, each with cruel weapons and each its own mockery of prime material beings, some so decomposed that it is wonder that they move at all. Fear was palpable and the few that faced the onslaught faltered and broke ranks. In the centre of a thin line of elf warriors stood Melenwe, Morwath and Walorin. With arms outstretched in defiance of the approaching beast, Morwath again noticed Walorin’s finery – rings with large gems, golden arm bands, and a platinum bracelet. He threw spells at the Beast, used wands and a staff to create all manner of effect on the enemy ranks. Similarly, Morwath, in his element in the natural world, used some powerful dweomer to destroy the enemy hoard. Melenwe, an expert with bow and sword, cut down rank upon rank. But nothing stopped their advance. Finally, as the Demon charged and more elfs broke ranks, Morwath reached into his gypser at his side and produced a small, unremarkable green gem.

“No Morwath! That is not meant for our use!” Walorin screamed as the first rain of arrows struck the ground around them.

“But we have to try something before he takes it all.” Morwath’s eyes were wide and his brow deply furrowed in concentration.

“No! You must fly!” The half-elf indicated a direction to his rear where trees still stood.

“That will not help; you need me here. Only I can turn back the abomination – fight fire with fire!”

“Morwath, you must take Lastar’s artefacts to Gwendolyn before it is too late!” The half-elf pleaded in between casting spells and firing great blasts of flame from what looked to be nothing more than a well preserved twig.

“Why did you summon me then? Surely you meant to use the power I have? Perhaps all your dream-watching has affected your mind.” Morwath turned now to look at his friend, ignoring the enemy which flew at them.

“It is not my mind that you should be worried about!” retorted his friend, taking a second to return the look before throwing more dweomer into the melee.

“What do you mean? The father has no impact on my judgement, my will is my own!” Morwath looked down at the stone in his hands and curled his fingers tightly around it.

“It appears your judgement is becoming clouded, but we have no time to discuss it! You must leave before all here is lost. Go back to the lost souls for they may offer you sanctuary.” The half-elf pleaded with Morwath and a look of desperation came to his face. Morwath put the stone back into its bag and paused to ask, “And what of you and Efferendil?”

“You cannot think of that now; I will battle here to defend the tree if nothing else. Go now!”

It was too late. As Morwath turned to contemplate his decision – whether to use the stone or flee - he saw the Lich smash Melenwe to the ground and shoot a ray of green light at Walorin which broke him into small fragments.

Controlling his emotions well, Morwath stood his ground, fearing to reveal his feelings for Melenwe.

“You know that it will destroy you Dordraug.” Morwath said his voice stronger than he thought possible in the face of the abomination.

The Lich’s voice was a slow deep rasp, “That is why you will bear it for me, Druid. At least until we find the rest. Let’s face it Morwath, you are not as committed as your friends to their folly. You are too wise for that; for the vain pursuit of the unobtainable. Even if your idiotic comrades were to succeed, you could not tolerate the imbalance – all that bright light, overstated pomp and ceremony, the lack of ambition! No my Druid that would not be your chosen path…”

“You know nothing of my chosen path Dark Wolf; why should I bear it for you? Kill me; take what you want.” At that moment, Morwath saw no reason to live. Melenwe was taken from him; Walorin was destroyed and the enemy were triumphant. He despaired.

The blow was not unexpected but the speed and the ferocity of the impact was a shock. Morwath spun and fell. He remembered the soft embrace of the deep bracken before he passed out. It was hopeless now…

Morwath recalled little of the journey except that it was long and unpleasant. When he was not being tortured for the enemy to gain information he was being tortured for fun. If this were not bad enough the broken gem, whose pieces he now bore in a small gypser suspended from a leather strap tied around his neck, constantly argued with him. Often it pleaded to e used against the enemy so that Morwath could free himself and others it taunted him in an attempt to free itself. He managed to follow his journey during periods of painful consciousness. From Efferendil they took him to a port where he boarded a gith ship. At sea his mind rarely wandered from his thoughts of Melenwe. Did she live? The Lich did not see her importance of that Morwath was convinced. The only thing that kept him from despair was the thought, the hope, the one day he might see her again.

The voyage was not long. The Gith used the planes well but tended not to tarry on any single plane for long. What were they scared of? They kept him from leaving his gaol but Morwath knew where he was headed. If he were on a Drow ship, he would find himself in Nagrad and then on to Inwe’s hidden fortress. No he was on a Gith ship which means Guerin was handling this personally. He would not be on a ship at all if he were bound for Malor. What happened when he left his friends? Did they perish? In which case, he would end up in Tiris before being moved…Where? Ahh, of course, he would be taken to Sutur – Guerin’s recently gained fortress, the key to the Prime..? Once did not they believe it to be the highest priority to defend? Anyway…What would the Lich do with Morwath when at Sutur.

It became apparent that Morwath was correct when the Gith vessel travelled up the Ishurias rather than docking at Ashore further north. How much did Malor know? Very little Morwath suspected. But the ship did not deliver the Druid to the Lich at the old fortress. Instead, he was taken into the mountains beyond. In and out of consciousness Morwath realised that he was more than a prisoner. They were using him to carry the gem, that was obvious, but what more did they want with him? They searched for something – what, Morwath knew not. The Lich seldom came to his prison but when he did the pain was unbearable. He could not survive much longer. Even the exquisite memory of his beloved Melenwe could not sustain him.