Prince Raethelas and his Raiders

[Phoenixguard09]

Well I can't believe I haven't put this up yet, the largest story I have written so far, an epic that stretches from Norsca to Ulthuan and Lustria. It is unfinished but quite advanced and has been worked on, on and off, for about three years. It is based off games that I played all throughout 2008, 2009 & 2010 with my High Elf army led by Prince Raethelas. It is also how I first met NightAngel.

Please enjoy the first chapter of the adventures of the brave Prince Raethelas and his Raiders.

CHAPTER ONE: The Opening Engagement

Prince Raethelas surveyed the Chaos warband's encampment from the back of Gyrail, the great eagle which had accompanied his warriors, with disgust. Filthy humans, despoiling the sparse woods with their barbaric ways.
"Savages" he hissed under his breath and Gyrail made a slight, sarcastic screech in agreement. He noticed that the slaves of the Dark Gods appeared to be making ready to move out and his elven eyes allowed him to see that the map of what appeared to be the enemy's leader had several arrows all heading in a south-westerly direction.
"Envandar was right," the Prince stated to his less than communicative companion, referring to the Sapherian archmage that had sent him on this quest. "They are heading towards the Forests of Tar Anrelian. They must be planning an invasion and need more wood for their wolfships."

The Chaos champion must have felt their gaze upon him or his maps and looked upwards. Raethelas knew that they were too high for him to believe they were more than just a passing bird. But it didn't pay to take unnecessary risks.
"Come, let us return and plan tomorrow's battle," the Prince suggested to the noble beast and the eagle furled his wings and skillfully dropped out of the sky, pulling out of his stoop mere meters from the snow covered ground before swiftly heading for the bright banners, hoisted on colourful pavilions in the distance.

Kuldas Raaal, master of the Skinpeeler tribes, noticed a small disturbance on the ground and instinctively looked skyward. Just a bird, or so he thought, not realising he had just witnessed the enemy general scouting his position from the air. Little did he know he had but one more sunset to live...

The white and green pavilions in the centre of the Asur encampment were the quarters of the Prince himself while his White Lions occupied the grey-green pavilions in neat ordered rows around it. Gyrail set himself down just outside the entrance to the tent before making almost a mocking bow accompanied with a chirping chuckle before taking to the skies once more, leaving Raethelas wishing the eagle would show a little more respect.

Raethelas deployed his elves on a ridge overlooking the battlefield. His scouting had left no doubt in his mind that the enemy would be heading towards his elves. To take on his warriors in single combat they would need to come around the west side of the cliffs. Calmly he made his way to the front of his army. Everywhere he looked he saw fierce faces, set with grim determination. These elves would follow him through fire and death. He was honoured to have them at his side.

"I am not like other Princes," he began softly, the Cothiquean Prince's voice only just carrying to the rear ranks of his force. "Most would give you a fiery speech about the importance of our work here today. Of how your blades and arrows will cut the enemy down like wheat before the scythe." His eyes flashed with barely restrained anger and his voice began to rise. "Most Princes would tell you that you are invincible, unable to be killed! I am not like other Princes. I will not lie to you. Some of you will fall this day. Some of you, perhaps myself, will not live to return to our homelands."
His voice had been honed upon the shores of his homeland, battling with both the wind and the waves. He had no difficulty at all in imparting his message to his gathered army. "But when the enemy sees you, I want them to think twice! Nay, I want them to cower in fear! Warriors of Ulthuan, it is time! Take not one step in retreat!" The wind whipped at his long hair as he raised his glaive into the air. "I swear to you, your names will live in glory forever!"  As one his Elves cheered and with hearts full of fury they faced their enemy.

The dark host of the Chaos horde rushed toward their foe accompanied by brazen trumpets, baying hounds and the beat of ominous drums. At four hundred metres the elven archers and Eagle's Claws opened fire. White-fletched arrows and bolts the length of swords arced through the skies before reaping a heavy toll amongst the oncoming savages. The courage of the northmen wavered before a hulking figure in full plate harness and his retinue of warriors shoved their way to the front line. The courage of their leader gave the Chaos forces heart and they continued their onwards rush, heedless of the mounting casualties. As the horde came within one hundred metres, Gyrail and his eagles made ready to take to the air, begrudgingly awaiting the Prince's signal.

Raethelas himself had taken his place amongst Mardraith's White Lions and was now guarding the flank of his own army. The White Lions and the spear regiments were stationed at the only passage onto the cliffs. They watched as the enemy's vanguard of warhounds came into view before a shouted command from the Prince urged the spearelves to level their weapons at the oncoming enemy. The pack leader howled a challenge before being impaled on the Sentinel's leaf-bladed spear. The rest of the hounds followed their leader to swift deaths.

However a greater threat was coming from the south. Kuldas Raaal and his chosen guard were following the hounds with a great many warriors. Catching sight of the elves, his men broke into a sprint, his marauders reaching the foe before his more heavily armoured warriors and being cut down like wheat. His last tribesman was cut down just as his warriors hit the elf line like an avalanche. Axes cut at every angle and were blunted by well-forged ithilmar as master crafted spears were deflected by massive iron great shields. The Chaos warriors found themselves face to face with a grim wall of determined elves, each utterly devoted to their cause and their Prince. Kuldas, annoyed by his force's lack of success, led his chosen into the fray, runic axes striking in all directions at a speed even the elves were hard pressed to match.

Just as the spears looked ready to break under this combined, ferocious attack, Raethelas sent a signal along his lines to Gyrail. As one the noble beasts swooped down upon the champion's warriors as Raethelas led his White Lions against the foe.

Raethelas' ancient glaive, Silverfang, symbol of his right to be a Prince of Ulthuan, gleamed in the scant light that just shone through the heavy cloud cover. Its polished blade cut down the foe like a hot knife through butter. Hardened warriors of Chaos, veterans of hundreds of campaigns, seemed to simply scatter like dust to the wind before its vengeful strikes. No warrior could stand before it, for it was forged in a completely different age to vanquish far more deadly foes. Silverfang was a Daemonslayer, forged to end the existence of the greatest of these beings.

Having witnessed the Elf in shining ithilmar armour cut down three of his greatest warriors in as many seconds, Kuldas Raaal stepped forward himself to take on this foe. His axes swept down in a wide arc for the elf's head but Raethelas nimbly stepped back before thrusting Silverfang's point deep into Raaal's shoulder. The wound was deep but not life threatening in the slightest and the Chaos worshipper paid it no heed and continued raining ferocious blows down onto the slighter elf. For his part Raethelas fought skillfully, taking every strike that Kuldas made on the shaft of Silverfang, before finally spotting the opening he needed. In one swift motion he swept Raaal's left hand out wide before stepping inside the champion's reach and plunging Silverfang through his heart. The glaive pulsed with arcane power and Kuldas Raaal's eyes belched fire before the Chaos champion was decapitated by the elf's swift return strike.

At the death of their leader the Chaos forces fled almost to a man. However the victory was a hollow one. The spearelves and White Lions had both been severely depleted and Gyrail had lost one of his broodmates. Ulthuan would mourn their passing but Envandar had his victory and that was what mattered most.

[Jubal]

Good stuff! 

[Phoenixguard09]

Thank you Jubal.

CHAPTER TWO: The City of Lothern

The white beaches of Eataine were just visible on the horizon. All of Raethelas' veterans' hearts were lifted as the call of land being spotted went up. The three hawkships were in a spearhead formation with Raethelas' flagship, Minaithir at the fore. Within five hours they had moored in the lagoon of Lothern and Raethelas' elves had dispersed through the city, seeking means of transport to their homes and greeting the families they had left behind. Raethelas himself was almost glad of the fact that he had no family to meet. His father and brother had both died against the forces of Chaos and his mother had died not long after them of a broken heart. This lack of family made him a perfect choice for assignments that the council of Princes might not want to become public knowledge, or missions too dangerous to assign to one who had family waiting for him.

Raethelas' father, Eldiriath, had been a great Prince of Cothique, one of the most powerful of that realm. Silverfang was his, the heirloom of his house. In his youth while travelling across the breadth of Ulthuan, he had fallen for a young Caledorian maiden, Tiriel, the daughter and only heir of one of the famed Dragon Princes. Together they had fought against the disapproval of their families and were wed, taking up the responsibilities of a Cothiquean noble family. They were blessed with two sons both of whom were given the opportunity through their mother's bloodline to try and awaken one of the great dragons of Caledor. Raethelas, the younger, succeeded.

Shaking off his melancholy thoughts, he set out into the city. Walking through the bustling streets of Lothern, Raethelas was approached by a young scribe wearing robes of Sapherian blue, adorned with embroidered runes. 
"Welcome home Raethelas," the Sapherian said, bowing deeply.  Before the scribe had finished the greeting Raethelas had been insulted by the young elf's attitude, one bred by familiarity with respect.
"You would do well to address me by my title, scribe," Raethelas cut in coldly. The scribe responded to the correction with yet another bow, before continuing his statement.
"The Archmage Envandar, Wizard-Prince of Saphery requests your company in three days time to discuss your most recent campaign. You are to arrive at the fourteenth hour of the day. Good afternoon, Prince." The last word had been almost spat out, although the scribe had never truly lost his placating and haughty tone. Shaking his head at the attitude of the young elf, Raethelas nimbly pushed his way through a small group of human travellers, from Bretonnia by their dress, and headed towards the pastures outside of Lothern's walls, where Minaithir, his dragon and greatest friend was awaiting his return.

Minaithir's great head raised as the elf came within earshot. Sedately the dragon walked towards his friend and blew a small puff of smoke over him.
"You're late," the dragon remarked in a low but surprisingly well-modulated voice.
"I am sorry my friend, but I was delayed," the Prince replied. Minaithir shared Raethelas' disdain for what they considered soft city dwellers and he realised what sort of delay his friend had likely had to deal with.
 "Shall we fly?" the dragon asked, determined to destroy his friend's dark mood. Looking up into the bright sky, Raethelas felt his spirits soar. It was good to be home.
"Yes, let's fly."

[Phoenixguard09]

CHAPTER THREE: The Mage-Prince's Tower

The days passed by swiftly, as they always seem to do for an elf. It took only a short while for the Prince to grow accustomed once more to solid earth beneath him. It was not the first time he had been forced to do so. The life of a Prince was one of extremes, hardships and leisure following one after the other like rival packs of wolves.

Raethelas entered Envandar's tower at the fourteenth hour of the day and was astonished at what he found. The interior had been extensively decorated with precious materials and valuable gems and artifacts. A quick scan of the room revealed everything from small Lustrian gold pendants to finely crafted whitewood staves and swords of the purest ithilmar. The walls were covered in rich tapestries, detailing the early history and glory of the elven race. Envandar himself soon appeared at the top of a gilded spiral staircase in flowing Sapherian blue robes, decorated with pure black trim.
"Raethelas, it is good to see you," the mage said.
"Likewise, Envandar," Raethelas replied. He had always found Envandar's upfront manner off-putting and disrespectful but he was a Sapherian Prince, and was renowned even amongst them for his eccentricity. Raethelas pushed the matter from his mind as the mage beckoned him up, into his personal sanctum.

"Raethelas, I have another mission for you," Envandar began in his usual brisk way.
"Not again Envandar," Raethelas replied. "I'm not going to lead more of my elves into another death trap." The mage looked a little taken aback at this turn of events, a slight frown creasing his forehead, before pushing the matter.
"I urge you to reconsider. Look at this map." Envandar pushed a gleaming white parchment covered with arrows heading towards Ulthuan, under Raethelas' nose. "Look at all those arrows Raethelas. Every single one of those nine arrows are future invasions that will hit Ulthuan. All I am asking you to do is save your people." Silence reigned in the room, a heavy anticipation as the mage waited for Raethelas' response. For his part, Raethelas knew he was about to breach a barrier with the mage, that once breached would never be repaired. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for a verbal tirade Raethelas knew what his answer must be.
"No, I will not gamble the lives of more elves over an, as yet, undetermined fate. Send your own warriors Envandar." The mage cocked his head to one side, rather like a bird.
"You are in unique position. You could do so much good in this life my friend. Will you not do so?" Raethelas shook his head.
"My people-" he paused, considering the situation. "My people, keep dying Envandar. I lead them to deaths they could avoid if it weren't for my orders."
"Your campaigns have always been successful-" the mage began only for Raethelas to shout him down.
"At the cost of lives, you fool! Too many lives!"
"Every victory has a cost my Raethelas. You are the fool if you believe otherwise," Envandar stated colly. Raethelas stared at the mage he thought he knew, knowing that his time as Envandar's servant in these matters was done.
"I care not, find another lapdog." Envandar's face barely stirred yet behind this facade, Raethelas coul detect a barely contained maelstrom of fury. However, the mage's words did not betray his composure as he calmly showed Raethelas from his dwelling. He had other methods of getting his own way.

That night Raethelas slept fitfully in his rented room, his rest plagued by a niggling sense of danger and the weight of responsibility of his elves' deaths. An unconscious instinct drove him to roll off the bed and he did so. As he did a dark knife flew across the room and embedded itself in the far wall. He glanced over to the doorway as a dark figure cursed and turned to run. Swiftly, Raethelas sprang up and ran to the door but the would-be assassin was already gone.

It was only a little past midnight but Raethelas made his way down the now silent streets to Envandar's tower, fully armed and armoured. Heavy wingbeats broke through the obscuring haze of fury and he looked skyward to see Minaithir's great bulk obscuring the moon. The dragon landed as quietly as he could in the middle of the street, which for a dragon of Minaithir's size was not very quiet at all, producing the equivalent of a small earthquake.

"What is wrong my friend?" the dragon asked in what he obviously thought was a whisper. It was still painfully loud in the quiet night air. Raethelas figured that the best way to get Minaithir to be a little more discreet would be to answer the question as thoroughly as possible.
"I have just been attacked and I think Envandar may be behind it. I'm going to make him confess and then hand him over to the council of Princes." The dragon nodded in understanding and padded his way behind the elf.

The candlelight was shining through the top window of the wizard's tower abode leading Raethelas to wonder why Envandar would be stirring in the early hours of the morning. After all, dawn was still almost three hours away. He tried to open the door quietly but it would not shift.
"Let me try", Minaithir suggested and the great dragon battered the heavy door down and caught it in his talons before it hit the ground. Slowly he set the large piece of whitewood onto the pavement. Raethelas strode purposefully through the open doorway.
"Be careful, Raethelas. I will await you here", Minaithir said. The elf nodded in agreement before continuing into the tower.

Raethelas carefully made his way up the large spiral staircase, his light leather boots making no noticeable disturbance. As he reached the door into the mage's inner sanctum, a voice rang out from inside.
"Come in Raethelas. I have been expecting you."

The elf immediately aimed Silverfang's point at the wizard's face and Envandar blanched visibly.
"There is no need for unpleasantness, my friend", the mage said as he backed across the room.
"You sent your servant into my room to kill me. I'd call that quite unpleasant", Raethelas replied sardonically. Envandar spread his arms wide and said in a placating tone,
"I had nothing to do with the attempt on your life, I assure you," but the Prince was already shaking his head in denial.
"You lying dog! I should just cut off your head now and save myself the trouble later." As he said this he pressed the sharp blade deeper into the other elf's throat.
"Hear me out Raethelas," the mage pleaded, "A traitor must have learnt what I was proposing to you. Not knowing your reply he attacked you. You see, this proves that you must indeed leave." His rage now subsided, Raethelas could see the sense in the mage's reasoning.
"I'm sorry I doubted you Envandar", the Prince said wearily. "I must confess I am tired and not thinking clearly." The mage smiled,
"Indeed, I am shocked that you would suspect me of treachery for even a moment. But all is well now. I trust that we are agreed?" The Prince shook his head wearily.
"I don't know what to believe anymore. I will go and complete your errand Envandar, but I want more ships this time. I want a full detachment of Swordmasters and I want a larger flagship so I can take Minaithir with me."
"Consider it done Raethelas", the Mage replied, "I will arrange everything you need."
Raethelas turned to head out but thought better of it and added, "And you may want to get your front door repaired." The Prince strode off into the night. Envandar's eyes followed the tall elf as he walked steadily out of sight. Gold was no obstacle to him so what was a broken door and some larger ships when his goal had been accomplished?

[Phoenixguard09]

CHAPTER FOUR: Fleets and Eagles

The cry of Lothern's sea birds were easily audible upon the deck of Raethelas' flagship, especially to keen Elven ears. Minaithir's carefully crafted prow sliced through the waves, followed by a fleet of seven Eatainii hawkships. Together, the eight ships made their way over the rough seas and toward distant land in the East.

The Prince had retained the services of Mardraith's White Lions, his personal bodyguard, who had been reinforced in Lothern by more of King Finubar's own corps of Chracian woodsmen. Raethelas' detachment were two score in number, armed with the long-hafted greataxes of their homeland. From Lothern itself came a force of three hundred Sea Guard, four hundred Militia and four Eagle's Claws to a ship, under Randariel, the Captain who had accompanied all of Raethelas' past expeditions. From Ellyrion came a host of Silver Helms and Reaver Knights and a detachment of forty Swordmasters under Bladelord Khorael and the Mage Filandar had been mustered from Saphery. Raethelas only hoped that they would be enough for the daring raids Envandar envisaged.

The Elven fleet was almost five hours out of harbour when wings were spotted on the western horizon. The Elves immediately manned the Eagle Claws but their fears were laid to rest as they recognised the forms of eleven great eagles from the Annulii Mountains. Within minutes, Gyrail set down on the deck of Minaithir, producing a small rocking on the ship as the giant bird's wings folded against his body.
"Trying to leave me behind, my Prince?" the eagle asked Raethelas, in a tone that made the question more of a sarcastic statement. He was answered by a low growl from Minaithir, who lay sprawled on the flagship's deck.
"Show some respect, eagle, or I will have your feathered head," the great dragon warned. Gyrail's head snapped back at the threat,
“You want me to show respect to this elfling?” Raethelas had to step in before the situation got out of hand.
“That’s enough from the two of you!” he shouted but both beasts were beyond listening.  Spitting fury at each other, they took to the skies.

Gyrail was quicker in the air and he used his advantage wisely, pulling away from the dragon and further into the sky. Minaithir hovered above the ships, wings beating a deep cadence in the air. Hundreds of yards above him, Gyrail’s wings folded and he plummeted towards the ocean. Minaithir roared a challenge and rose to meet him as the eagle’s wings swept out and his talons outstretched. With an ear-splitting screech Gyrail landed on the dragon’s back and scrabbled desperately for a hold with his talons. However, Minaithir’s scaly hide was too strong and his lashing counter-attack forced the eagle to back off. As Minaithir drove the eagle back, Gyrail’s breath started to get shorter and shorter. His nerve was faltering, but he’d be damned if he fled before the dragon. Just as he had the thought, several more eagles flew up to intercept the two battling creatures.
“Get out of my way!” Gyrail shrieked at the eagle who flew across in front of him, forcing Gyrail to stop and hover in the air. Minaithir himself was ringed by six eagles and snarling fiercely. Raethelas’ voice came from the ships below,
“Get back down here now! Both of you!” Chastised, the eagles and the dragon swooped down to face the fuming Prince.

"Gyrail, I am sorry for the grief I have caused you, truly I am. And I realise that it was my orders that led your kin to their deaths. But I have lost my brother against the Great Enemy. This War has killed my family too. I understand your anger and your sorrow, but you must know that I have been through the same experience." The eagle's head dipped in shame as he realised he was in the wrong. His wings drooped to the deck of the ship. His entire demeanour showed contriteness. In contrast, the elf's eyes glittered, but from fury or grief, none could tell. After some time, Gyrail spoke.
"Where would you have me my Prince?" the eagle asked. Raethelas breathed a silent sigh of relief.
"If you would stay Gyrail, I would have you and your broodmates scattered on the ships. We could use aerial support." The eagle lifted his head proudly with a new light in his eye.
"Consider it done my lord," Gyrail responded, without his usual indifferent tone, before taking to the skies and leading his broodmates into wheeling sentry formation above the fleet. Nothing would approach within a hundred leagues of the elven fleet without warning from the eagles. Catching a favourable wind, the elven ships continued to the north-east.

[Phoenixguard09]

CHAPTER FIVE: Raiding Norsca

The Elven fleet had sailed for over a month now, raiding along the Norscan coastline, destroying villages and putting servants of the Old Dark to the sword. It was a brutal, uncivilised type of warfare, made even more so by the presence of a dragon in the raids. Usually the Sea Guard would go to shore and cut the humans down in the darkling hours of dawn with arrows and spears, however occasionally, Minaithir's restlessness would become unbearable and he would descend upon the crude encampments in the middle of the night, blazing with flame and leaving devastation in his wake.

Despite their differences, even Gyrail could admit that the great dragon was an asset on the field of battle. There was nothing Gyrail had ever seen which could offer challenge to the Prince's mount. With claws and flame he swept aside all resistance. It was a waste to have him rip apart mere humans.

Despite their speed and skill, the fleet had suffered losses, many occuring one fell night when a whole ship went down beneath the waves. The Captain had misjudged the shoreline in a storm and dashed the hull of his hawkship against a concealed reef. The ship had gone under before any rescue attempt could be put together, over one hundred elven lives lost to the churning sea. An unfortunate loss to be sure, but Gyrail was glad his eagles had not been called upon to sacrifice themselves for the so-called glory of Ulthuan.

Word had been passed along the decks of the ships. The warriors knew that the end of the raiding was in sight. The last target was within two days sailing. It would be crushed as easily as the others and the army could go home to their families once more.

The Norse village was visible in the hazy morning light. Soft spray lifted from the sea as the elven fleet cut through the water like so many knives through butter. Smoke was rising from the centre of the primitive compound. High, wooden walls surrounded eight large, thatched huts. The image was peaceful until the watchers realised the walls were daubed in blood. The skull of some great beast adorned the gate of the village, its mighty horns stabbing into the morning sky. Even at the extreme distance from the compound the elves could clearly see the rune cut into its forehead. The Mark of Khorne.

Gyrail and two of his broodmates flew over the village, wings beating in unison as they scouted the area. This high up they would be unrecognisable to the humans as the great beasts they were. At a low piping call from Gyrail, the other two eagles peeled off to either side and headed to the north and south respectively. They would warn the elves of any pickets in either direction while Gyrail would continue to watch over the village. Once they had left, wing beats fading in the air, a cold dread grew in Gyrail’s heart. His keen eyes searched the horizon but nothing could be seen. A foul stench filled his nostrils but, even with his preternatural senses he could not determine which direction it was coming from. Too late he recognized the smell. His thoughts jumped back into the past, another encampment, another army, another battle and he remembered the sight of other-worldly legions pouring out of a slash in reality, a force that no mortals could understand nor resist. The daemons had come to war. As soon as he made this realisation, he twisted in the air in an effort to warn the approaching elven fleet. Three winged furies rose from the ground to meet him.

Gyrail screamed a challenge at the winged daemons and darted like quicksilver at them. The furies flexed their claws and waited, wings beating the air. Gyrail closed and within seconds, had crossed the distance separating them, flared his wings and struck with his talons. The curved blades slashed deep into immaterial flesh and with a burst of acrid smoke, the first daemon burst into nothingness. Of the two that were left, one was a sanguine red, with ice cold blue eyes. The other, obviously the leader, was dark grey and wore a cuirass of burnished bronze. Screaming in an infernal tongue, they slashed through the sky and engaged the eagle with razor sharp claws. Furious, he twisted in the sky, and pierced the lesser fury’s throat with his beak, ripping its head clean from its foul body. Looking in disbelief at the great bird that had effortlessly dispatched its brothers, the grey daemon turned to flee. Fearing that it would spread word of the skirmish and give away the element of surprise the elves wished for, Gyrail gave chase. The fury’s smaller size gave it the advantage as the chase found its way into a dense forest. While Gyrail was forced to stay above the canopy, the fury’s smaller wingspan allowed it to weave amongst the tree trunks. Its speed grew and its pace became more and more frenetic as it began to reach the edge of the forest. The daemon’s haste became its undoing. Hurtling through the air, the fury missed a beat and its wing clipped a tree trunk. Flipping end over end, it crashed out of the forest and came skidding to a halt just out of the cover of the trees. The last thing it saw in the living world was a massive dark shadow, blotting out the sun, before sword-long talons flashed down into the fury’s face.

[Phoenixguard09]

CHAPTER SIX: The Last Battle

“My Prince, they are reinforced by Daemonic scum from the Realm of Chaos.” Gyrail’s statement set the Elven leaders muttering as he landed heavily upon the deck of Minaithir.
“We cannot risk an extended fight. That has never been our way. We hit and run before they gather their full might.“ Naraith, a noble of Yvresse, was well-known for his intense caution. And his habit of stating what was already known, Raethelas thought. Whatever his faults, he and his Gryphon were a powerful force in battle and once engaged all his caution was stripped away.
“We know what we’ve been doing Naraith,” the Sapherian Mage Filandar noted coldly. Naraith was about to respond when Minaithir cut across him.
“What use is this bickering?” he asked of the assembled Elves. Mardraith nodded his approval before adding,
“Minaithir is right. We will face the enemy at dusk and we will defeat them. If we send some Archers up with the Eagles on to those cliffs, they can direct a plunging fire as cover.” Naraith scowled,
“And what if they decide to send Furies against them?” Gyrail’s normally inexpressive face showed his anger at the noble’s caution.
“I daresay my Eagles and Minaithir will be able to see them off!” Nariath curled his lip.
“I see that you left Tahl out of your reckoning.” Gyrail smirked,
“Your beast is too dumb to even know what’s happening. You’d better go feed it before it starts crying for home.” The Elf’s face contorted with rage. Like all bonded Elves, Naraith saw a slur against his beast as an insult against himself. Once again Gyrail had gone too far.
“How dare you!” the noble roared, reaching for his sword. Gyrail’s wings spread and he took an aggressive position as Naraith’s sword slid from its sheath. Raethelas’ voice cracked through the chill morning air.
“Enough! Gyrail, you will hold your tongue in the future and Naraith you will sheath your sword immediately!” Begrudgingly, the two stepped down. “Naraith has a point,” Raethelas said, considering his options. “We can’t afford to split our forces so. We will initiate an assault at dusk as we can see them but they can’t see us. We can’t afford to be split with such an important battle ahead of us.” He looked Gyrail in the eye, catching the Eagle’s gaze before addressing the commanders with a grim smile. “Rejoice my friends, for tomorrow we sail for Ulthuan.”

As the last rays of red sunlight peaked over the waves to the west, the Elven army made its attack. Serried ranks of spears, archers and Sea Guard with bows drawn advanced upon the Norse compound while the Eagle Claws were staggered amongst the lines. The Swordmasters and White Lions advanced behind them. Raethelas gladly took to Minaithir’s back and waited patiently for the clash of battle to ring. Gyrail and his Eagles were to form up around the great Dragon while Naraith and Tahl were amongst the infantry, ready to defend them against aerial attack. Ranging ahead of the infantry, the Elven cavalry split into two groups. The Silver Helms were to charge into the compound, before retreating swiftly under cover from the Reaver Knights, back to the Elven lines, drawing the humans out into a disorganised mass for the Elven infantry to dispatch them at leisure.

The soft drumming pattern of light hoof beats went unnoticed by the Norse as the Elven cavalry raced like lightning towards the Chaos worshippers’ encampment. Just ten yards from the walls of the compound, the harsh cries of a squalling mess of Furies heralded the charge. The thirty Elven knights thundered through the gates, lances leveled and faces grim as they fell upon the unprepared humans. Lances shattered wooden round shields and bit deep into unprotected flesh, sometimes carrying through the first victim and into a comrade behind them. The humans scattered across the encampment hastily grabbing discarded weaponry as the Elves rode where the willed, slaying all within reach of their blades. As the surviving Norsemen of the initial charge gathered together, a clear note rang in the evening air. As one, the Elven cavalry began to fall back, disengaging from the fight. They knew that without the impetus of the charge, or the space to maneuver into position to do so, they could not win a protracted combat against such numbers.

With a roar, the Norse champion led his men into the fray but it was already too late. The Elves were racing away on their swift steeds. Suddenly the air filled with bladed death and several of his kinsmen were cut down. As the heavier Silver Helms fled, the Reaver Knights had opened fire on their pursuers. Now, turning towards the Elven lines they galloped back, keeping a steady and accurate rain of arrows on their foe all the way. Strung out in a line, with their leader at the fore, the Norse gave chase.
Above them, screaming packs of Furies took to the skies, A few managed to catch up to the Elven riders, tackling them into the ground off their steeds, however the horses of the Elves are the swiftest in the world, and most of the cavalry were carried back to the safety of the Elven lines.

“The plan seems to be working well Raethelas,” Minaithir rumbled to his rider as they watched the Norsemen become separated and disorganised. The Elf nodded in agreement, absent-mindedly forgetting that the Dragon couldn’t see the gesture. The Prince was preoccupied, staring intently at the leader of the enemy host. A cry went up over head as Tahl and Naraith took on the squalling enemy fliers, the Gryphon’s great bulk and strength allowing Tahl to tear bloody holes in the Daemonic host. Even so, the numbers of the thronging Furies forced Naraith and Tahl to fall back allowing the Daemons to fall upon the infantry on the ground. At an unspoken signal from the Prince, Minaithir sprang into the air. 

With an earthshaking roar and a wall of flame belched from his fanged maw, Minaithir crashed into the Daemons. The impact alone sent many back to the Realm of Chaos, the Dragon’s flaming breath, lashing claws and Raethelas’ deft strikes from Silverfang accounting for the rest. Within seconds all the Daemons on the field were vanquished.

The battle overhead went all but unnoticed as the line of Elven veterans prepared to receive the charge. The air filled with bolts and arrows as the Elves opened fire upon the approaching horde. At a command from Randariel, the Elves holstered their bows and readied themselves for combat, lowering spears all along the line.

Howling and roaring like rabid animals, Norsemen crashed into the glittering Elven line, axes cleaving into the host. However their lack of armour was their undoing with many falling to the keen spears of the Asur. As the Elves slowly pushed forwards, Norsemen were cut down in their scores. The battle on the ground was over almost as quickly as it started. Seeing his men cut down around him, the champion turned to flee.
Randariel knew that the foe had to be utterly destroyed. Their orders from the Prince had been perfectly clear. No survivors. Watching the Norse champion’s attempt to cleave his way out of the press, the Captain knew what he had to do. Leveling his blade at the Norseman’s chest, the Elf called out a challenge. Despite not understanding the words, the Elf’s intent was clear and the barbarian’s face showed unconcealed glee as he stepped forward to meet the challenge. The Elf’s salute was met by a fast but clumsy attempt to separate his head from his shoulders. The axe strike was parried before a lightning fast reverse strike from Randariel’s sword flashed into the human’s ribs. With a stunned look on his face, the Norseman sank to the ground.

[Phoenixguard09]

CHAPTER SEVEN: A Bloody Night

Raethelas watched over his Elves as they set up camp in the foreboding twilight, their quest completed. The last of Envandar's nine future incursions was defeated. Their losses had been mercifully few, but each Elf who had fallen was one too many. The Prince's melancholy thoughts wouldn't leave him, even as his warriors piled the enemy corpses in the human encampment and set a great blaze. The females and children had been put to the sword. Helpless as they were, there was no other way. The females would spawn further darkness and the children would grow into the fathers Raethelas' Elves had killed. Cruel, perhaps, but necessary. The roaring inferno would wipe away any trace of the encampment. Although it might take years for the taint to be washed away, wholesome life could grow here once more.

Pavilions and tents had been set up close to the beach, the Elves tired after the evening's work. Slowly, they drifted to their beds, eager to sleep on solid ground once more, the heat of the flames keeping away the chill of Norscan nights. Raethelas himself stayed awake, sitting with Minaithir, watching the blaze and thinking about the future. He did not know what he should do next. As a Prince of Ulthuan, there were precious few who could oppose him in doing what he wished. He was a Dragon Prince, one of very few to have not hailed from Caledor, wielder of Silverfang, Prince of Cothique. He'd commanded successful battles all over the world. Yet, he grew bored with his life. He had no purpose. His people fought against their dark kin, the Druchii in bleak Naggaroth, yet he had never done so. It was not his war and he did not know whether he wished it was.

Leaning against the scaled bulk of his greatest friend, the Prince was startled from his reverie by the sound of wings as they swept through the air above. In seconds, Gyrail had landed next to him, bobbing his head in a quick approximation of a bow. The Eagle was looking worse for wear. The last few months had not been kind to him, the latest battle in particular leaving him with some few fresh wounds.
"The Prince does not sleep," the Eagle stated, preening himself with a massive beak. The bird's delicacy astonished the Elf, who had seen Gyrail cleave men in half with that same beak.
"I cannot Gyrail," the Elf replied. "I am thinking of our purpose." Gyrail stared at the Prince, sharp eyes locking onto Raethelas' gaze.
"It is wise to think of such things, but there is a time and a place to do so. Now and here is not them." The Elf leaned back against Minaithir, the sleeping Dragon's breathing reassuring.
"If not now, then when Gyrail?"
"When your warriors are sleeping in their own beds, not longing for a home they may never see again. Many ills may befall us before we reach Ulthuan once more. They look to you to bring them home. That is what you must think of. Why we ever left is a question for another time." Raethelas nodded.
"I thank you for your counsel. For now I must sleep. Good night my friend." The Eagle bobbed his head once more.
"If I may, my Prince. That is the second time tonight you have called me friend." Gyrail lifted a talon before placing it upon the ground once more, uncomfortable with the direction he was taking the conversation. "Why do you do so? There is no love lost between us."  Raethelas smiled at the Eagle's honesty.
"That," he said grinning, "Is a question for another time."

Even as the Prince settled down for sleep, the pools of blood that had scattered the battlefield and dried into rust coloured gore began to coalesce into grotesque forms. Great fanged maws and sharp talons appeared as the most prominent features of these abominations, horns crowning sinewy bodies of unnatural muscle. The great pyre that was once the Norse encampment spat fury into the night sky, waking exhausted Elves as Kuldas Raaal, Daemon Prince of Khorne was given a new and powerful form after his demise at the hands of Raethelas those many months ago. The great skull that adorned the encampment’s gate became his head and his massive bat-like wings bid fair to be the equal in size of Minaithir’s. Two massive axes materialised in his taloned hands. With a roar to the heavens, the legions of Khorne poured onto the field.

Astonishment and fear raced through Raethelas’ mind like wildfire.
“Form up, Form up!” The Prince’s voice, trained to cut through the din of a storm, echoed through the hot night air.  “Archers, open fire!” The highly disciplined Elves rushed to obey and the weary warriors took up positions, ready to repel the Daemonic host. “Gyrail, get your Eagles up there”, Raethelas said to the giant bird, pointing skywards.
“As you command it, Prince,” and as one the Eagles rose to meet the thronging Furies once more.

Kuldas Raaal laughed at the puny warriors before him. They had defeated him once, the leader and his flaming glaive had personally killed. How could they have seemed so deadly before? How could that weakling Elf have ever defeated Kuldas Raaal, Favoured of Father Khorne? Above his hissing minions, an aerial battle was being fought, between his Furies and the enemy’s Eagles. Even nine Eagles were tearing great rents in his swarms of Daemons but one by one they were being pulled out of the air. Even the formidable presence of the Gryphon was only dispatching so many Furies. The Elven aerial defence could not hold and every moment the Eagles were not harrying Raaal’s infantry was another step towards the Elven lines. The blood would flow heavily this night. Father Khorne would be pleased.

Seeing a gap between two small Furies, Naraith directed Tahl between them. Two raking blows to either side caused one Fury to squall and list to the side while the other faded out of existence, leaving a subtle smell of smoke and corruption. The Gryphon was now clear of the storming melee that had erupted in the dark skies. Suddenly a roiling blast of incandescent heat rolled past the two of them, stunning Tahl and almost blinding Naraith with its intensity. A large flaming form rose from the ground barrelling through hapless Furies and Eagles alike and slammed into the Gryphon from beneath, shaking Naraith loose from his saddle. With a piercing scream, Tahl flung herself after her rider, wings swept tight against her body as she plummeted towards the earth. A massive axe rose from the figure behind her, and fell in a terrible arc, cutting into Tahl’s back and fouling her flight. Broken and battered, Elf and Gryphon fell to the ground in each other’s embrace, sharing the final seconds of their lives.

Gyrail and his Eagles were fighting a losing battle. Every Fury that fell was replaced by another, spitting its rage. Of the eight Eagles he had started with, only two others had survived and this battle was not near done. Together, the three birds flew desperately into the fray once more. They would sell their lives dearly. Even as his talons sunk into the false flesh of yet another Daemon, Gyrail vowed that it would be so.

Minaithir and Raethelas watched from the ground as their aerial forces were decimated. The Daemon Prince who had so effortlessly dispatched Tahl was formidable.
“Raethelas, we must attack now. Gyrail will be overrun.” The Dragon was always eager for action, the Prince thought. Making a decision, he nodded and called over the signal blower. “Call a retreat, get Gyrail out of there. Tell Randariel to retreat to the ships. Minaithir and I will cover them.” The messenger nodded.
“What of the Eagle Claws my Lord?” the adjutant asked. Raethelas shook his head,
“Leave them. We need speed and they will only slow the crews.” Hiding his scowl at the lost craftsmanship, the adjutant hurried away. Raethelas turned toward the fighting that was engulfing the Elven line. Khorael's Swordmasters and Mardraith's White Lions held the centre of the Elven host and both nobles had charged forward into the midst of Khorne's warriors, sword and axe cleaving into immaterial flesh even as their own Elves tried desperately to follow them.  Even as the signal blew to withdraw, Raethelas patted the Dragon's neck, hefting Silverfang with his other hand. Their own fight was in the skies, against the flaming monster who had killed Naraith. “Let us fly Minaithir,” Raethelas called to his greatest friend and they prepared themselves for the fight of their lives.

[Phoenixguard09]

CHAPTER EIGHT: Flaming Skies

Randariel stood at the head of his warriors, in the front rank against the Daemonic foe. Spears flashed in the gloom around him as the enemy crashed against his line.
"Hold them here!" the Captain cried to the Elves around him, cutting into the snarling face of the Daemon before him before catching a bronze axe with his shield. Around him, Elves fought and died, armour riven asunder by crushing blows from the Bloodletters' weapons. Slowly, they were being driven back towards the roaring sea. Randariel began to despair. They could not prevail against such numbers and mindless fury.

In the midst of the fray, Mardraith and Khorael continued to cleave through the press, Swordmasters and White Lions following in their wake. Khorael's greatsword was a deadly wheel of light, scything down Daemons, never ceasing in its whirling path. Mardraith, the White Lion strode beside him. Where the Swordmaster cut the enemy down with skill and speed, the Chracian battered them with his greataxe, prevailing through sheer strength. Around them, their Elves fought to the last, roaring their defiance to the uncaring skies as the enemy cut them apart. Finally Khorael was brought low, one of the last of the Swordmasters to fall, the blades of the Daemons hacking into his cuirass and ruining his chest. Mardraith stood over him, axe cleaving at those who would despoil the corpse of his friend until the enemy finally overwhelmed him even as the horns blew the signal to fall back to the ships.

From far above the field Raethelas saw Mardraith fall and whispered a brief prayer to Asuryan to safeguard the fallen Elf's spirit. Minaithir sped like a great flaming arrow into the heart of the Daemons in the sky, setting the clouds aflame with his blazing breath. Scores of the Furies flew towards the Dragon but Minaithir would not be denied. With claw and flame he bulled his way through the mass, squalling Daemons falling aside, broken by the Dragon's thunderous charge. Those which managed to escape Minaithir's onslaught fled away from him, knowing better than to dare the Dragon's wrath.
"Over there!" Raethelas cried, pointing towards the massive flaming Daemon which hovered above the host, bellowing into the sky.
"Did you honestly think I forgot where he was?" the Dragon called back indignantly.

Together, Elf and Dragon hurtled through the skies, Raethelas' warcry swallowed by Minaithir's roaring bellow. Ahead of them, Furies massed together, forming a shield between the furious Dragon and the Daemonic lord. Minaithir snarled. These Daemons were no challenge at all, powerless to hurt him. Flames danced through air, burning the unclean false-flesh of Daemons as Minaithir crashed through the swarm. Once through the Furies, the Daemon Prince finally looked up at the pair, axes held at the ready in either hand, eyes blazing with unnatural fire. Those same eyes betrayed something. Recognition.

Minaithir's blazing breath and the flaming aura around the Daemon warred with each other, the unclean inferno burning even Minaithir's flame as the monstrous creatures crashed together with two thunderous roars. Raethelas was rocked in his saddle by the impact, almost losing his grasp on Silverfang. A massive axe swung down towards both him and the Dragon's shoulders. Minaithir might have been larger but the Daemon was more manoeuvrable in the air and armed with its two flaming axes. Raethelas swung his glaive forward, the runes inscribed into Silverfang's ancient steel blazing into life as it made contact with the baleful energies of the axe. Those runes gave the Elf's arm the strength it needed to turn that deadly edge aside. All the same, Raethelas' arm was almost wrenched out of its socket by the blow. Minaithir meanwhile, fended off the blows of the other axe with his claws, desperately holding onto the monstrous arm wielding it. He had underestimated his opponent's sheer strength.

Despite the wildly flailing Dragon clinging to him, Kuldas Raaal was.... joyful. Yes, joyful was the emotion he could feel coursing through his mind. He was as strong as a Dragon! What men could make that claim? His God had granted him the power to avenge his defeat at the hands of these weaklings and that was what he would do.

[Cuddly Khan]

Wow! Eight chapters! You're really committed.

[Silver Wolf]

I'll have to read this after I finish my exams.

[Phoenixguard09]

CHAPTER NINE: Bittersweet Victory

The elven army was falling back, abandoning their positions on the beach and scrambling aboard the ships under the direction of Randariel. With heavy hearts, many elves turned their steeds free before fleeing, knowing that embarking the noble creatures aboard the hawkships would take far too much time. In a great herd, the horses fled from the field to take refuge in the forests, and from there, warmer, safer lands to the south. For the moment however, the horses had to escape the cawing daemonic furies, which rose, shrieking into the sky, only to fall upon the horses as they galloped to safety among the trees. Many horses were snatched up and ripped to shreds by the daemonic host, their remains left to fall from the sky, strewn across the landscape. 

Small companies of elves held out against the Chaotic horde, surrounded by snarling visages of primal fury and rings of bronze blades. The elven spears were keen, but only few weapons existed in the world which could ensure the destruction of such creatures. One by one, the brave elves were dragged down, fighting a desperate rearguard. They held their shieldwalls, hoping that for every elf ripped apart by the daemons, another would be free to escape onto the ships, and then further over the sea.

Above the retreat, Raethelas and Minaithir were engaged in a rearguard engagement of their own, struggling to withstand the power of this Prince of daemons. The dragon managed to drive his foe beneath him, forcing the smaller daemon towards the ground with his sheer weight. For a moment, Raethelas believed that the daemon was finished. He raised his glaive to the sky and let out a cheer of triumph. The Prince's elation was shortlived, as with an enraged roar, the daemon surged upwards, unholy strength fueling its wings and drove both of the fell axes into the dragon’s ribs.
“Minaithir!” Raethelas cried, twisting around in the saddle to survey the damage done as his friend gave a great bellow in pain. Pulling upwards with powerful strokes of his wings, Minaithir smashed his heavy tail into the daemon, which was still clinging to its axes, dislodging the creature and throwing it further downwards.

The hawkships had cast off the shore, having taken on the last of the elves that could make it onboard safely. Many tears were shed for those who had not made it onto the ships, few of which were still engaged with the daemonic horde upon the shore. Randariel stood at the bow of Minaithir with Filandar the mage, staring at the contest in the skies above. Dragon and daemon continued to hammer at each other, claws and axes digging deep rents in the other. But only one could be the victor.
"May Lileath understand what I must now do," Filandar muttered to himself, before raising his voice and addressing the elves on the ships around him. "My friends, close your eyes and think of home!" With a shouted incantation, the Sapherian mage raised his hands to the skies, white flames dancing across his skin. With a massive effort, Filandar imposed his indomitable will upon the flames, sending them cascading across the field in a white blanket of fire. The magical flames whirled across the engagement, seeking the daemons which had enraged its master, clinging to their false-flesh and devouring it. The few elves who had remained alive in the battle welcomed the oblivion of the flames, and were also consumed.

Once the flames had been dismissed, Randariel raised his head and grasped the mage's arm.
“Can you not aid them?” Randariel asked, restlessly peering into the darkened sky. The Sapherian mage shook his head.
“No Captain, not unless you can condone the destruction of our Prince.”
“Never mind then.” Silence fell over the two of them, as they peered into the night sky, watching as the dragon forced the daemon further downwards.

“Be ready Raethelas, I intend to finish this now.”  With a strenuous effort, Minaithir swept upwards with one final stroke before folding his massive wings and streaking down towards the stunned daemon, claws outstretched and roaring with fury. A wide gout of pale flame erupted forth from his maw, engulfing the daemon moments before his claws took the beast in the face, ripping ferociously into its false-flesh. Before the daemon could recover, Minaithir had swept past and Raethelas had his chance, bringing Silverfang to bear. With a single strike, the elf sent the blade of the ancient glaive through where the beast’s heart should have been, rending the daemon’s given physical form apart with the flaming energies.

Minaithir’s victorious roar echoed over the battlefield and as one, what remained of the legions of Khorne upon the field looked skyward, to witness their leader’s form explode from within. Bestial howls rose up from the host and slowly they began to drift away from the mortal world, ever ready to return and take bloody revenge upon those who would risk the anger of their Lord Khorne.

But for now at least, the elves had their victory, though at a terrible cost in precious lives.

[Phoenixguard09]

And thus ends Book One.

Now for Book Two.

CHAPTER TEN: The Court of the Phoenix King

Prince Raethelas stood in the centre of the council’s chamber, arms at his side, head bowed.
“Upon who’s authority was this expedition led, my lords?” The obnoxious Eatainii Prince addressed the assembly of elven lords with arms crossed over his brightly robed chest before turning to the accused elf standing in the centre of the chamber. “Did you see fit to consult anyone as to the wisdom of this course of action my lord?”
Raethelas, clad only in plain grey-green robes answered his accuser quietly.
“As I have already told you, I was engaged by the Prince Envandar, who had foreseen future assaults upon our shores. I was acting pre-emptively.” The Prince of Eataine shook his head and turned to address the council once more.
“And now you have spent precious lives on a whim, casting them away on distant shores. And that is to say nothing of the steeds which you abandoned. Your actions have cost us greatly.” Raethelas bent his head, for the deaths of his elves rested heavily upon him even after the many weeks which had passed since that bloody night.

Dark-haired Prince Chantuir of Caledor, a cousin of Raethelas’ through his mother stood and held up his hand.
“Peace Draentil, his actions were clearly justified. After all, how many times has Raethelas been used successfully in this very fashion by the Council of Princes itself? We know how Envandar works.” But the Eatainii Prince just laughed and produced a scroll of parchment, sealed with the crest of Envandar himself.
“Let us see then, my lord Chantuir, just what the Mage-Prince has to say for himself.” The Eatainii broke the seal and unrolled the scroll.
“I shall naturally skip ahead to the important parts, as I am considered a close friend of the esteemed Envandar and this letter contains much in the way of personal correspondence.” The elf continued to skim through the writing before exclaiming in feigned joy.
“Ah, here it is!” He cleared his throat before continuing.
“It is my deepest regret to have to place some doubt on Prince Raethelas’ credibility, or if that in itself is something which can be vouched for, then perhaps his honour is at fault. I have had no part in the Cothiquean Prince’s recent expedition, although I feel no small degree of anger at his seizure of my ships and the acquisition of one of my most promising students.” Draentil skimmed through quickly before looking back up towards the accused Prince who was struck with the betrayal.

“The letter continues in a more conversational tone but I shall endeavour to spare you the details,” Draentil said, pacing the centre of the chamber and directing his speech at the other lords. Chantuir had sat down once more, a grave expression upon his face. Draentil turned away from the council and strode up to Raethelas.
“So my lord, I can only contend that you are a liar and a thief, one who is responsible for the loss of a ship, many horses and many lives.” He smiled cruelly and continued. “You will never see that dragon again. I will personally overs-” At this, Draentil stopped, for Raethelas had driven his fist into his throat, cutting off the elf’s words and flooring the more slightly built Prince. Several Princes rose from their chairs, but Raethelas paid them no heed, crouching beside the fallen elf.
“I care not if you slander me. Your insults are as weak as your arm. But never stand between Minaithir and myself, not if you wish to live. Remember that.” With those words, Raethelas struck the other elf a hard blow to the side of the head, rendering the Prince insensible.

Several guards rushed into the chamber, the Chracian woodsmen taking Raethelas roughly by the arms. “Release me. I am still a Prince of Ulthuan, son of Eldiriath, of the blood of Caledor and Cothique. You have no authority over me.” The guardians looked hesitantly at the Phoenix King, awaiting his response, but Raethelas was beyond patience. “Release me I say!” he cried, and with a mighty heave of his shoulders, broke free of the heavily built guards. Growling, they hefted their greataxes, interposing themselves between their charge and the furious, but unarmed Prince.
 
“Enough!” the Phoenix King’s voice cracked through the chamber like a peal of thunder. Raethelas reined in his anger and bent his head once more, arms held loosely at his sides. For their part, the White Lions did not let their axes fall.
“I apologise my lords and king. It seemed as though my sentence had already been passed, I felt I should do something to earn it.” The Phoenix King was unamused.
“Then hear your sentence and witness justice. For the deaths of Naraith of Yvresse and all the elves who were part of your ill-fated expedition, the assault on Draentil of Eataine and perjury in the court of the King of Ulthuan, I, Phoenix King Finubar the Seafarer of Ulthuan sentence you to banishment to the Citadel of Dusk where you will see out the remainder of your life as part of the garrison. You will forego the rights due to you as a Prince of the Asur, turn over the weapon Silverfang to the King’s chamberlain and send the dragon Minaithir back to Caledor to join with the rest of his kin. You will abide by these conditions or your life will be forfeit.” The Phoenix King’s gaze bore down upon the former Prince with all the weight of a mountainside. “See to your affairs at once, you depart tomorrow, never to return.”

[Cuddly Khan]

"the Phoenix King" I just had to laugh at that.

[Phoenixguard09]

Don't blame me, that's Ulthuan's monarchy all the way.

Cheers for reading it.