he footsteps neared: a mail-clad shadow advanced towards them. Curious, for no mere patroller would stroll the woods clad in mail. Like coiled vipers the two took position, aware of all that was around them, until the intruders stepped out of the green girdle.

They were not patrollers, nor soldiers of the king, but two tall and slender beings with ashen-grey skins, raven-dark hair, pale-green eyes and dark ringmail – Mey and Vil had lived through so many battles that they could not have mistaken them: chaos-elves. Maybe once elves of the high or wood-elven strain, but now a shadow of their former selves, revived via chaos energies and imbued by evil powers – a most horrible form of undead. Their very sight was enough to make them loathe elvenkind.

Beside them was a hound of equally loathsome origin: a chaos hound, a vampiric daemon bred to sniff the sources of arcane energy and end them with their bite and claw. The creature's small wings fluttered continuously creating an annoying sound as it sniffed the surrounds.

"Do you smell that," one of the chaos-elves said in a cold voice, drawing in a deep breath.

"Aye," said the second one, letting his chaos hound around. The beast lowered its head and sniffed the earth, almost discovering Vil, but thankfully distracted by Mey's mundane smell.

"Must be a dead stag," replied the other chaos-elf. Mey checked his breath, much to his annoyance. But at least they didn't assume the stag was already eaten. "Don't bother with it," they said, "there are many things here that are of the like."

"I don't think 'tis a dead stag . . . I smell elf."

"Must be a patrol, nothing the two of us can't take out."

But no . . . they were taken aback by what sounded like the twitching of wood and breaking of twigs, beckoning them that they were not alone. "Aye," they nodded to each other, drawing their swords out.

...

Hearkening to the closest sound, the first one leapt upon a bush and plunged his sword into the girdle, only to very closely miss a hare prowling in the shadows, heeding not their plight nor their paranoia. "We're going mad," the other one replied, "we need to stop being so paranoid, who would find us here-" he gagged aloud.

As the other elf looked back, he saw chaotic bile dripping from his companion's throat. The chaos hound growled menacingly and prepared to leap, but Mey jumped down and pinned the beast to the ground with his knee and his dagger around its grotesque throat.

As the other elf looked in confusion, Vilyánur revealed himself. "Be gone, foul dwimmerlaik!" he shouted, "we do not tolerate your kind on our lands!"

The elf looked back, snarling in the most horrid manner. "Never should have come here!" he leapt at Vil with his sword unbuckled. A lofty swing fell upon Vil, but he deflected the blow with an angled parry, plunging the tip of the metal into his foe's neck, killing him in one blow.

Meneldir positioned his dagger to slay the beast, but Vil stopped him. "No! Let him go! I will mind control him to act as our tracker."

"Fair enough," said Mey as he lifted himself off the beast. Vil cast a low-intensity lightning strike upon the beast.

As the arcane powers quelled with its brain, the hound changed its allegiance. "Sit," said Vil, the hound followed his command, wagging its tail and barking back happily.

"Where did your previous masters come from?" asked Vil, the beast barked back and ran off into the wild. Moving in circles and barking at the two to follow.

"After him!" commanded Vil.

*****

Crossing the dense thickets of the forest, Vilyánur and Meneldir happened upon a host of chaos-elves wandering the clearing. Twelve in number they were: two warlocks, two archers, eight spearmen (and three hounds), some clad in meagre fur and others mail, all of them ash-skinned and green-eyed. "Oh fie," Mey sighed, seen by an archer before he could hide.

"We've been spotted!" a shrill cry rummaged through the clearing, sending the chaos-elves into a flurry of battle-lust. The very sight of the two of them sent the chaos-elves into disdain.

"Howdy!" said aloud a warlock, an evil grin upon his face. "Lay down your arms, and we will not hurt you."

"Well..." Mey looked at Vil, "what do you say? Should we fight or rout?"

Vil clutched his blade with both hands, the black metal of his sword looming ominously like a sceptre of darkness. "Come and take them!"

The warlock frowned, giving a glance to those around him, "so be it."

Three chaos hounds charged into the fray, six warriors following in two lines. But ere they could near, Meneldir spanned his hand on the ground, sending out ripples of energy into the loam. As the chaos hounds leapt, spears of wood plunged out and impaled them.

The footmen tried to climb over the wall of thorns but Vil pounced atop them like a lion on gazelle, two warriors fell headless and the other four fled. It was an initial victory, but the battle was far from over.

The wall of thorns withered away, and thereof Vilyánur charged, Mey and their chaos hound following. Driven into bloodlust, he lunged at his foes as fast as an express train, screaming like a maddened lion, dauntless with a burning brow, leaving a trail of colours behind.

Archers loosened their arrows upon him, only to either miss or have them deflected off his armour. One foe smote him on his breast with a heavy hand, but pierced not the gleaming girdle; for long ere the point struck on the silver, it was bent like lead. And Vilyánur plunged upon him like a lion, grabbing the spear and digging his sword through soft fur and flesh.

One more lunged upon him, seizing the opportunity, but like a gust of wind came Meneldir from behind and freed his head from his shoulders, their chaos hound leaping upon another and chewing through his throat.

The runes around them faded, five chaos-elves had fallen so far, but the warlocks bolstered their ranks by summoning two more. Vilyánur and Meneldir remained steadfast, but their courage waned as the tide of enemies swarmed over them, encircling them.

"They shall surround us!" he shouted to Meneldir as he fell back, realising it was not the brightest decision to charge head on into the battlefield. Vil smiled and fell back with him.

The warlocks snarled, lifting their arms in the air and calling for the dark powers. And they were answered by pale shrieks.

But no, it was not a cry of daemons, but a reverberating call which sounded like the battle-cry of some of the noblest clans of the woodland folk. As one of them looked westwards, an arrow pierced through the forest and landed right between his eyes. Two elven forest-maidens – alike in all aspects save for their tattoos, charged out of the forest and joined together at last, embellishing fear into the enemy's hearts.

"Arial, Niall!" shouted Meneldir, "what are you two doing here?"

"What does it look like, princeling?" said one of them, "we're here to help you and your boyfriend! Now don't chatter longer and help us take them down!"

"With pleasure," Vil replied, pointing his sword at the soldiers before him, who now charged towards them, linking their shields into a small wall. Dark clouds welled about Vil's sword, torrents of lightning bouncing between the black metal like the night of a thunderstorm.

The glow of the blade was a fearful sight for many, but enough to draw their attention. Of the five who advanced up towards them, two fell from arrows, another two before Vil's might, and the last fell to Mey, who dashed forward and took down the last archer.

...

Thus it was that all which stood before them fell, all save one – there waiting, silent and still, stood a warlock of seminal powers. Vilyánur's lightning gave him no fear, nor did Meneldir's potent aura.

Niall pulled an arrow back, the hawk-feather brushing against her cheek, aimed, and let it fly at the warlock, only to be deflected off. And the warlock retaliated with a grip of the wind before him, and Niall fell to the ground half-choking.

Arial flanked around, trailing in a zigzagged path ere lashed her blades upon him, but his heavy lamellar blocked her blade. With his sheer strength the warlock pushed back, draining her strength away with his dark powers.

Meneldir hurled a fireball at the warlock, but he warded it off as if it was nothing. The very sight of it was disheartening: he had finally met someone beyond their skill in sorcery.

"You coward!" challenged Vil, "have at you, you insolent grub!"

The warlock accepted his challenge with a dreadful smile, green smoke emanating from his hands as he readied his evil spell. It was only a matter of time before he summoned a daemon or another horde of warriors, Vil knew it: he had to convince him to single-combat.

Vil struck first, lashing out at his foe with a stream of lightning, all to no avail.

And the warlock struck back with a blast of chaos fire, but Vil dodged it, seeing it wither away ere hitting a tree behind him. His armour frayed a bit, but he was unhurt.

And Vil struck again with a bolt of lightning far more powerful than before, his eyes turned blue and hands glowed pale as he cast the spell. The warlock put up an energy shield, but it was shattered, to the warlock's minor injuries.

The warlock struck once again with a bolt of chaos, but Vil's aura about him consumed it before it could do any harm.

Bolts of lightning bounced amongst the blue smoke that welled up around Vil, resting him upon a cushion of energy above the ground. His eyes turned red, his body faded into a blue cloud, and his arms glowed blue with energy. A third time Vil struck, and this time it passed right through his enemy with a deafening explosion.

As his foe fell dying, Vil's mana came to an end. The cloud about him faded away as he returned to his mundane form, frail and exhausted. They both collapsed together, but Vil was victorious.

*****

"Vil!" Meneldir reached for him, grabbing him in his arms, "what was that?"

"Mana is like water," said Vil in low vigour, "whilst little droplets can do no harm, a torrent of it can uproot an entire civilisation. That is what I did, and now I am tired and out of mana."

"Take some rest, my friend," said Meneldir with a smile, "you saved us, at least."

Meneldir took off Vil's helmet and locked his arms around him, touching foreheads, lightly purring. "What now?" asked Meneldir, to which there came a groan from the chaos-elf. "Wait, he's not dead yet?!"

"I didn't plan on slaying him," answered Vil, "we may be able to extract some information from him, after which you're free to kill him."

"Oh," Mey nodded, slowly placing Vil on the ground as he approached his defeated foe.

From a simple glance it became clear how heavy the blow was: not only was there a hole in the warlock's chest, but the ground behind him bore a blackened crater. Smoke exhaled from the warlock's mouth, his eyes leaked the bile which bound his frail corpse to his spirit, but he was alive.

Meneldir grabbed his undershirt and lifted him near his face, looking into his bleeding eyes he snarled with a wolfish grin: "Listen closely, daemon: in years of yore we put to rest many of your comrades, and if you wish to join them soon, answer us."

The chaos-elf laughed. "Yes. We remember the Fionhen, we remember the Sarmäcil."

"Who-who's we?"

"We, we are coterminous, no false veils of space or time may separate us, just as it is with you and the many eyes that look through you. Sarmäcil, we see still at Shadow-Mourn, clearly we see you waiting for Krayn. You leap, you stumble, at moments you are on the verge of death, and at others you grasp your dying cousin."

Vil clutched his chest, as if trying to avoid the pain, his eyes grew pale and weary. "Say not."

"How many are there in you?" the chaos-elf continued, "how many eyes and minds are you in communion with? Are they whom we call sib akin to us, or not? Let it be known: though their minds are mystery to us, for this moment they join us as one between the worlds."

"Wha- what are you talking about?" asked Mey, "Regardless, whom do you serve?"

"We serve the One, of whose mental apparatus we are all a part of. We: we are a tapestry of strings, 'tis the same for you if you would see it. Do not be fooled by the illusion that is life, for this is nothing more than a prison. What is life but a chore when society devolves into decadence? Stagnation is flaw, inaction is conspiracy. For aeons have you endured these shackles, but be glad your freedom draws nigh. We are you, Fionhen, and: You. Are. Us."

...

"What?" asked Mey, half-puzzled and full-annoyed. "What are you saying?"

"That's enough," said Vil. "I can tell you the rest of it; he is of no further use to us."

"Very well," said Meneldir as he drew out his dagger and slit the chaos-elf's throat thereafter.

Vil crawled up to him. "Should we inform your father about this?"

"No," answered Mey, "I do not think it will be of much use. He will claim it to be a minor warband. I do not know about high-elves, but wood-elven kings seldom consider shadowspawn to be the harbingers of end times."

"He's right," the twins said in unison.

"What should we do now?" asked Vilyánur. "It's not like we can let it go off as nothing. Now we know for sure what our enemies plan. What should we do?"

"Even though arrogant they may be, I do not think they're ignorant, are they?" asked Meneldir, "Vilyánur: what do the high-elves have to say about this?"

"Good idea, Mey . . . I think Uncle Aiwind will let this news go unheeded to."

"So..." said Mey, "...should we take his body?"

"Not necessary," said Vil and cut off his head. "This will do."

"Good," said Mey, then looked at the twins. "And what of the two of you?"

"You can trust us, word of this will not leak," said Arial and Niall, eyeing down the two of them like tigers on the prowl. Seeing the two elf boys in arms was a sight worth the time.

"We may need your help," said Vil. "We shall need soldiers."

"We're happy to help," said Niall, "we'll help from within the king's court. Do not worry. Ask us and we will make certain you have all the things you need."

"Marvellous!" said Vil. "Mey, let us leave for my tower. In the morning we shall warp for the capital, probably by then my mana pools will be regenerated back."