he morning sun stretched across the horizon, casting away the shadows of night and bringing the message of morning to the folk of Alledor, The wood-elves in the Shadowcrest Valley looked to the north, waiting for their urban allies to join them.

"I can't believe we're defying the king," a voice echoed from afar.

"When injustice becomes law, resistance becomes duty," another voice answered, and then both fell silent in a sea of conversations. "Truly," Mey said to himself, "these folk have gotten far more intelligent than I had previously known them to be."

"Still dangerous," Niall answered from beside him, "even though I'm a wood-elf myself, I dare to tell ye: I'd be readier to trust a high-elf more than my own kindred. Of the many things one can never trust, the list goes:"

And so the two spoke together, taking turns with verses.

A creaking bow, a burning flame,

tide on the ebb, a coiling snake;

scions of the king, a wailing calf,

a witch's flattery, a deadly laugh.

"Nobody should ever trust these, lest they seek death," said Niall, Mey laughed at her comment; suddenly his hears caught the blast of a high-elven battle-horn. "Ah, they're here."

A horn bellowed at a distance, and drums answered, hundreds of feet marching to their beat. At first they saw a flag, then Vil and his two officers, and behind them eight-score elite legionnaires, dressed in red, carrying large scarlet shields, with swords and spears by their sides.

As the mist cleared, three figures stepped out of the shadows. Alongside Vilyánur came his two companions – Aeresil Brightroar, the king's personal champion; and Vareth Brownbeard, military consul and captain of ulfsarks.

"They're here," Niall called for Meneldir, only to be petrified seeing Vilyánur's companions. Aeresil was the embodiment of sky: with a lion's pelt wrapped around his neck and an iron crown upon his head, he trotted the earth using his battleaxe as a walking stick. Vareth was the embodiment of earth: a rough man-shape with the face of a dwarf, but eight feet tall and with the body of a troll, carrying an axe bigger than many of the wood-elves.

Vil was garbed as a grand-centurion: armoured mundanely, save for the large red plume atop his helm. Mey couldn't decide if he should laugh or tremble, he looked like a rooster but it added a whole foot to his height, as if he wasn't already tall enough.

...

"Sorry we're late," Vil apologized, "crossing the Angkreb in late spring is a difficult task, especially since someone burned the bridges. Regardless, I brought with myself two of my uncle's companions."

"That's a big one," said Arial, looking at Vareth, "good thing he's on our side."

"Should you be of little mischief," said Vareth, "I am the last thing you have to worry about, young ranger. The enemy has daemons thrice my size, if that is what concerns you. Size does not matter though – the greater the pride, the harder the fall."

"Don't worry," said Niall, "we have our monster as well."

They looked back, an old satyr garbed as a king approached them with an annoyed look. "Do I look like a monster to you?"

"No, not you!" the twins panicked, "you are barely more monstrous than a dire wolf."

The satyr shrugged, "whatever!"

"Garamond," Meneldir approached him, "nice of you to drop by after so many years. When the girls said they'll bring them an 'unlikely ally', I didn't expect it to be you."

"Before you ask me, I will make it clear: I am not responsible for all of this, the girls dragged me along. Should my actions anger the king, I will take no responsibility, save in the case of a reasonable circumstance."

"Done!" said Meneldir, "do not fret, our actions will lead to the betterment of us all."

"I hope so," said Garamond, looking past the green girdle and onto their paths. "How many did you bring?"

"In total, four hundred:" Arial answered, "two hundred high-elves and two hundred wood-elves."

"Only?" Garamond looked at him in question.

"This will not be long," said Meneldir, "barely a day's stroll should my calculations be correct. We are just going for a chat, not to fight enemies; although should the latter happen, we shall be ready."

"Do you fear that will happen?" asked Vil.

"I am unsure," Mey said in doubt, "but I trust your legionnaires, I'm sure they can protect us against foes both mortal and immortal."

Vil nodded, "do you fear patrols?"

"No, not patrols exactly," Mey answered, turning to his scouts for information, "but we can get assailed by neighbouring tribes or daemons, especially some of the less friendly ones. Not like we are one united force, and I am particularly worried about tribal raiders."

"And whatever fell beings prowl the caves?"

"There are no caves leading to our destination, we have to use the good old forest roads, or rather what's left of them."

Vil looked in worry, "damn it Mey, you know my troops don't fight well on uneven terrain. How do you expect a tortoise with uneven shelling to hold back a volley of arrows, should that fate befall us?"

"Do not worry," said Mey, "most possibly it will be nothing more than a short trek. Now come, we should be leaving now."

*****

A horn bellowed, signalling the century to start their march down the path. The wood-elves followed behind in an unsynchronised march, leading and trailing behind. Vil, Mey, Aeresil, and the twins led the on horses, Vareth and Garamond following on foot.

Soon the mists grew deeper and forests darker, the path descended into dense woodlands but the canopies remained the same height, turning the hallowed forests into grand halls. The ceiling loomed green with patches of light between, trunks of trees rose like pillars from the earth to uphold the hemmed leafy canopies.

The rattling of the leaves was accompanied by the wail of the wind as it passed through the forest floor; enchanted by the howling of wolves and wargs at a distance. Birds chirped ceaselessly, as if alerting the elves of lurkers around them.

"Where are we going?" asked Aeresil.

"We are on our way for Caravir, Lord of Forest Dragons, one of the Guardians of Alledoria . . . he and his kin aided us in the battle against the daemons of Krayn, certainly we can count on them a second time."

"This foe is different," said Vilyánur, "he is no daemon-king, but an element of nature. And besides, last time my kin reported forest dragons was the First Age. So many wars and plagues wreathed our lands in tension and havoc, and yet they slept as silent as stones."

"That's because those plagues posed no threat to them or the denizens of the wild. They do not care about us, but when our world is threatened, they will readily defend it with their lives."

"Heh! Forest dragons!" scoffed Vareth, "they owe allegiance to no one, especially not to those who tamper with arcane. They are so unlike their starborne kin; they are less wise and far more dangerous, even though I doubt the allegiance of dragons in general in times like these."

"You're not wrong, captain," Vilyánur looked back, "but if zealous might is what can save us here, then zealous might is what we need."

"I agree with Lord Vareth," said Garamond, "even though I have far greater disposition of the forest dragons, I agree to that-"

"Hush!" Arial and Niall whispered. Everyone halted thereafter, taking shelter beneath the trees, eyes fixed up.

"What is it?" asked Mey.

"Up there," Niall pointed upwards.

And then they looked up – three hippogriffs, having rangers upon their backs, carrying the banners of King Arvedui, glided through the air. Though at first they all mistook them to be mere patrollers, it became imminent that they were not patrolling when they were seen with their bows drawn and arrows nocked.

Vilyánur shifted to Meneldir's side to see where they were going, and there he caught the elves shooting at something – five chaos gargoyles were heading towards them, with obviously no good intentions in mind.

A battle took place in the air – gargoyles assailed them with fang and claw, and the hippogriff riders answered with a volley. Five minutes the battle continued for, until more hippogriff riders charged in and freed the conflicting hordes.

"Oh no!" exclaimed Vil, "it seems we've been caught in the middle of a skirmish!"

"Let us make haste then," said Meneldir, "I do not think it will be wise to be spotted by the flyers."

The order was issued; they hastened through the deep forests, trying to remain as silent as possible. Marching orders were cancelled, now they had to prowl through the thick canopies like panthers. Thankfully the legionnaires were trained in that, and the wood-elves experts.

...

"Watch out!" someone called from afar, seeing a hippogriff crash to the earth. Mey looked at it from afar: one of its antlers broken in the fall, its feet scarred by evil claws, and neck snapped by tremendous force.

"What is happening?" a captain complained, Meneldir crouched to hear the forests' whispers: a nest of hippogriffs was in distress – gargoyles roosted on a nearby tree, launching assaults on the hippogriffs and wood-elves roosting there.

"It's a skirmish!" answered Meneldir, "the forces of my father are in battle with the chaos-elves. It does not look like this will end any time soon."

"Maybe we should not bother with them," said Garamond. "We don't have plenty of troops to spare, I'm sure of that."

"I agree," said Meneldir, "come on, move!"

The host nodded, continuing to walk on. For a whole day the host marched, passing through the linden groves until brown walls loomed before them. Mey stopped the host, looking in dismay and confusion.

"Damn it!" lamented Mey, "I forgot about the fortress."

"What?" Vil looked at him in question, "how come?"

"They just recently started building it," he said, "that's Dewfell, the fortress which comes before the darkest path begins, we have to cross it and then happen upon the satyr village, where we can rest for the night."

"Who owns it?" asked Vilyánur, "I can see your father's banners atop there."

"These men are fiercely loyal to my father," said Meneldir, "they are of the Spellsinger Clan, and one thing I know is that they do not tolerate high-elves, if we are spotted by them, they will turn hostile instantly. I am dead certain that I will be of no resistance against them."

"Is there any other way around?" asked Vareth.

"No," answered Meneldir, "well, there is but it is dark and twisted, and will take well over a week even with-"

"Well, then..." said Vareth, "...here are the facts: they will attack us on sight, and we cannot take a different path, and our army is too big to either warp around or sneak through. So . . . what choice is there?"

"Are you suggesting what I think you are?" asked Aeresil, clutching his battleaxe tightly.

Vareth scratched his beard and smiled, "how many of them do you think there are?"

"A score at least, a hundred at most," answered Meneldir. "I can bring down the walls, if I can get close to the walls without injury."

"Excellent," said Vareth, looking at Vil. "Grand-Centurion Vilyánur Sarmäcil, what are your orders?"

"Let us lay siege," said Vil, "...in whatever ways we can."

*****

Like a maddened lion Vareth charged ahead and struck the wooden gate with a heavy hand, thrusting the head of his axe into the reinforced wood. The loud thud took the defenders by surprise, as if challenging them to battle.

"To arms, men! To arms!" a loud wailing voice came from within, followed by synchronised footsteps. Green shadows armed with bows gathered upon the walls, taking refuge behind the crenellations as Meneldir's archers pursued them with arrows of their own.

Some of them shot arrows back, only to have them deflect off the legionnaires' shields or armour. Others took to the machicolations and attacked Vareth, but their arrows could not penetrate his heavy armour.

A score of legionnaires gathered into a tortoise and rammed the front door, defending Vareth and Aeresil as they tore the gates open splinter by splinter. Other legionnaires pulled out their composite bows and lashed out on the defenders.

"Now, Mey!" screamed Vil.

Mey dashed forward, spanning his hand onto the ground right before the castle walls, sending ripples of energy into the loam. And the spirits answered: the earthworks began to shake, the wooden walls thin and frail withered away, revealing a passage in. This was it: the warriors of Meneldir entered first, and the rest followed. The defenders sallied forth to breach the gap, but at the same time the gate was opened by Vil's two officers who had warped in amid the confusion.

Like water on rock the wood-elf shock troops fell on the tortoise, their axes and shields strong, but faltered as the elites gave no ground, holding strong against the disordered infantrymen.

Five minutes in: the enemy had been subdued. Most of the defenders had been killed, maimed, or captured, and with it the siege had come to an end. Banners of Vilyánur fluttered high in the air, flying alongside Meneldir's own.

"So the battle has been won," Vil whispered.

"One last thing remains," said Mey, "come."

Vilyánur jumped down the battlements and onto the courtyard, walking into the Lord's Hall with Meneldir by his side. As the door flung open, Vilyánur's guards drew out their blades and charged inwards with sword and spell, cleaving down whoever came to resist. Two royal guards appeared from the quarters, but were mauled down the chaos hunters.

...

The lord of the fortress – Jarl Aivoren, patriarch of the Spellsinger Clan, looked in confusion to see the young prince and the high-elf lord together, cluttered in blood and followed by chaos hunters and high-elf warriors.

"What's the meaning of this?" he cried aloud. "Prince Meneldir?"

"Jarl Aivoren," said Meneldir, "you're relieved from duty."

"What?" he scoffed, "how could you? How could you betray your own father? Him (Vilyánur) . . . I get it, but you! How did you dare do so . . . and why?"

"The world is in peril, Jarl Aivoren," said Meneldir, "and I must do everything I can to see it is saved, even if that means slaughtering my own kin and disobeying my own father."

"Forgive us for having done this," said Vilyánur, feigning politeness to hide his excitement. "But we believe the legions of chaos may be on their plight to vanquish our world. Not as a boastful high-elf, but as a humble protector of this world, I tell ye: 'tis our task to protect the world, and for that we need both the races of the highborne and the woodfolk strains to stand together against the shadow. Now your king, whom you so highly revere, has chosen to turn a blind eye unto these matters, but your Prince Meneldir is not that foolish, and 'tis with his aid that I and my brethren shall awaken Caravir and his forest dragons, and not zealots of a tyrant will halt us."

"You're foolish!" he screamed, "I will report to the king of this! You shall all perish!"

Ere the others could mind, Aivoren made for the window, a dash as fast as the wind. He leapt out, landing with a soft leather thud, only for more sounds of bone on dirt to clench and drown the voices, a gurgled scream pervading.

Meneldir and Vilyánur looked out of the window – there was blood on the earth, and an elf beside it, still palpitating from what seemed to be a surge of electricity. "I took precautions," said Vil with a chuckle.

Mey stared at him with a gesture he failed to decrypt. "Will he live?"

"Not for long, but we have other pressing matters to tend to," said Vil, turning to the two guards behind him, "comrades: escort the prisoners of war to the dungeons, repair the broken battlements and clean the blood, erase all traces of the siege."

"But who will tend to the prisoners?" asked Mey. "Do we let them starve to death?"

Vil nodded silently, a mental darkness following, "I will let none perish for mere resistance. Take heed to the fallen, garrison a couple of your henchmen at these posts, and move on."