Viridor

(Western Ocean, 25th^th-30th October, 1600)

As the shores of Alair fell into the distance, the sea-wise elves looked around at their new shipmates, obviously checking for something - especially with the dwarves Vollun and Hildraft. All, however, appeared unbothered by the motion of the vessel, and the elves relaxed a bit. No bad sailors then.

Surya spent some time talking with Eldariel, asking him about the readiness of the Elvenhost for a real war. The Knight of Belándel was honest; many of the warriors in the host that would march on Vorsand were unblooded, though training had not been neglected. But there were sufficent - like himself - who had fought in the last wars to form a cadre and stiffen the younger troops.

On the fourth day, Thraldor warned the party that they would be passing the Isenbriand - the magical defences of Viridor - sometime in the day. Sure enough, around noon, a huge misty fog-bank loomed up, and the ship plunged in.

As it passed through, great whirling clouds surrounded it, with dreadful nightmarish shapes just hinted at within the mists. Spectres of terror and despair swirled and gibbered; but the ship sailed in a clear area within the clouds, and the visions did not reach or afflict the passengers. All but one. As the mists closed in, Surya felt a stab of pain in his left hip, a cold numbness that seeped from his sword and spread into his body; his vision began to blur. He unstrapped the Sword of the Dead Legions and, taking it into the cabin, laid it on a bunk. Immediately, the sensation faded.

Around noon on the fifth day, the island itself came into view. Slowly it became more visible, a green and pleasant place, with green fields giving way to deep forests further inland and a hint of mountains rising beyond that. As the ship approached, a settlement was discernable on the coast. This, Eladriel explained, was the city of Elanros, their destination.

As the ship neared the land, the city of Elanros grew clearer. Tall, pale towers and white walls gleamed in the sunshine; elves were everywhere, bustling about, the city was full of life. In some ways it reminded the travellers a little of the ruins of Belegond, but the difference is the vitality of this place. At the harbour, dozens of splendid white ships were docked, with elves loading and unloading cargoes, trading on the quayside, and tending to the ships themselves.

Eastern Viridor

About five miles east of the city, a mighty stone obelisk towered two hundred feet into the air. For those with eyes to see, it was powerfully magical. In an inspired guess, Kobort deduced - correctly - that this stone was part of the mechanism that generated the Isenbriand.

Led by the two elves, the group rode up through the sloping streets of the town and through the gates into the open countryside of Viridor. The land they found themselves in was a revelation after the tourtured stretches of the Desolation and the harsh Erean Mountains. Gentle, rolling meadowlands, dotted with small farms and rich orchards stretched in all directions. A palpable sense of peace and safety blanketed the land.

(Viridor, 3^rd November, 1600)

On the morning of the fourth day after landing, they reached the margin of the great forest that had been visible from the elvenship and plunged in. Unlike the forests they'd travelled before, this was spacious, cool, comfortable; no tangled undergrowth or savage beasts here, but spaced trees and pleasant green clearings, almost like a park rather than a wood. Hildraft however did not feel comfortable at all. He, and he alone, felt somehow unwelcome. This feeling of unease grew steadily, and suddenly he realised what the problem was. His battleaxe - the one he'd found at Gorntar castle - was enchanted specifically for the bane of plants, vegetables and forest spirits. Remembering the Dryads who had lived in Gorntar, and looking uneasily around at the trees here, he shuddered a little. He for one would be glad to leave the forest.

Towards evening, they reached the edge of the elven city of Anmarion. Through the trees they could see structures coming into view; graceful buildings appearing almost to be growing with the trees rather than being placed among them. As they got closer, they realized that the buildings were not in a clearing as would be usual for a human city, but interspersed with the normal number of trees for that sort of woodland.

Eladriel led them to a graceful stone tower, blazoned with the same emblem as his own surcoat. "This is the home of my Lord, Celondil," he explained. As retainers led the horses away, he guided them into the tower and into the presence of the elflord Celondil.

The audience chamber of Celondil's tower was furnished in magnificence and splendour far in excess of anything the mortals had ever seen. So much so, in fact, that the æsthetics began to diverge from human norms, and the sights to pass from beauty to strangeness, and perhaps even to become disquieting. Lord Celondil, however, was a pleasant surprise; stepping down from his high seat, he greeted the questers with courtesy and honour, speaking to them as welcome guests, not - as the elflords the adventurers remembered from their own time - treating them as suppliants or inferior creatures.

Having seen to their needs, and arranged for them to be given quarters for the night, Celondil told them that a special meeting of the Elven council, the Elváthien, had been arranged the next day, and that he would bring them there. He warned them that not all the elflords felt as he did about mortals, and that they might receive a rather rough ride at times.

They were provided comfortable quarters for the night, but Surya for one was not weary. Exploring the city, he happened on a cleared space, obviously a practice ground, where a number of armoured elf-warriors - Eladriel among them - were sparring and training.

Joining them, the Tellaran engaged one after another, measuring their skills and experience. He found a great variety; some - like Eladriel - were clearly veterans of the Dragon War, and of great skill and cunning. Others, younger, were skilled technically, but lacked true battlefield experience, showing naivety in their techniques.

Sitting and resting, he spoke with Eladriel. It seemed that the elves traded far and wide across lands and oceans of Alair of which the mortal races knew nothing, and occasionally fought in wars among these people. Now that he looked, he could see that some of the younger elf-warriors had a sprinkling of "foreign" weapons among the standard ones of a knight; here a light francisca axe, there a suriken star, and so on.

Surya pointed out that the fighters lacked proper experience. Eladriel agreed, but pointed out they'd soon get it if they went to war on the mainland.

(Anmarion, Viridor, 4^rd November, 1600)

Something occurred to Hildraft, and he leaned over to talk to Eladriel. All through the recorded history of the Elven race, they had been ruled by kings; one for each of the peoples (sylvan, Noldorin, sea-farers), and a High King over all. Eladriel looked saddened as he related that once the refugees had arrived at the island of Viridor, Doronond the High King, blaming himself for the loss of the Land that Was No More, had fallen into a dark depression, and had exiled himself to a tiny island off the east coast, where he could sometimes see Alair in the distance. His people, pitying him, built him a home there, the Mournking Tower, and took no king after, ruling in council but always in his name.

Granted the floor by the Chancellor of the Elváthien, Belthrambor, Celondil related in fairly general terms the history of the Quest of Mergil. Reaching the end of his tale, he bade the adventurers come forward and reveal themselves. Stepping into the centre of the hall, they threw back their cloaks. Surya drew Mergil and held it aloft.

Uproar.

Awash in the noise and tumult of hundreds of people shouting all at once, the group looked around. About half the elflords seemed to be applauding or cheering; the other half appeared either transported with fury at mere mortals being on the island of Viridor, or openly scornful that this sword was, in fact, Mergil at all. It took the combined force of will of both Surya waving the weapon over his head in a threatening manner, and Belthrambor brandishing his baton of authority, to bring the Elváthien under control.

When quiet finally descended, Belthrambor spoke. "There is only one way to settle this; only one man who may prove the truth." "Come forth, Mastersmith!"

The crowds parted, and a tall elf with massive shoulders and muscular arms, clad in plain grey clothes, came forward. As the band looked at him they realized that they'd seen him before; as a ghost-like presence embedded in a block of stone.

Elverandil the Smith!

The mastersmith gazed at length at the blade, devouring it with his eyes. Then he dropped to his knees, overcome with emotion. "It is finished, truly the pinnacle of my art," he cried, tears running down his face. "Alas, Durgeddin, you wrought finer than you knew. And how black the irony, that it should appear again when there are none left to wield it. For all the Heroes of old are now gone."

Arguments began, with the little group in the centre of the hall all but forgotten, as elflord after elflord sprang to his feet and suggested this warrior or that knight as a bearer for the weapon, and others rose to deny him. The hubub grew and grew, and almost un-noticed a darkly cloaked and cowled figure made its' way to the dias. Stopping in the centre, it threw back the cloak to reveal a tall, noble elf, armoured in magnificent armour, with dark, painfilled eyes. Silence fell like a thunderclap.

Then it was broken by shouts of joy and pledges of loyalty. For the elf was Doronond, the Mourning King, Liege without a Land, High King of the Elves.

He raised a hand for silence. Utter quiet fell, and the King spoke his first words to his people in nine hundred years.

"In my folly of pride, in my sin of arrogance, I discounted and disparaged the aid and the valour of the other races of Alair. I led you all thus to disaster. I, and no other, was to blame for the reaving of Sildor," here there were horrified gasps from people who had never spoken that word in a thousand years.

"No more. In my long contemplation of my failure, I have come to wisdom and steel-hard determination. Only in unity can the races of Alair survive this danger. Unite! That is my Royal Command," here his voice dripped with self-disgust, "my last Royal Command. You, my Lords of Elvendom, will go forth and redeem our people from milennia of pride and arrogance, redeem ourselves of our - my -failure. Join with the other races of Alair - as equals - aid them in their war against the evil one we know so well; not as overlords but as friends and allies."

He pointed at the adventurers. "See! See what unity among peoples has done. These mortals, working together, have achieved what the Lords of the Eldar could not in a thousand years."

Sir Human." he addressed Surya. "Bring unto me the sword Mergil."

Surya stepped up onto the dias, the scabbarded sword in his hand. He faced the King who had brought war down on his people, an eon ago. "Are your warriors ready for the Dragon's attack?" he asked.

"We shall not wait for him," replied Doronond, looking the Tellaran squarely in the eyes. "We shall go to him. Now is the time to strike, now! All his forces are thrown south of Sildor, prosecuting his war on the humans and dwarves. Now, if ever, his citadel is less defended. Will you see this quest through to the end?"

He looked around at the other members of the Quest. "Will you stand with me in facing the greatest foe in our world?"

"Will you fight the Dragon with me?"

"Yes," said Surya.

"Give me my sword."

Surya handed the sword Mergil to the King of the Eldar. Doronond drew it in one smooth movement, and held it up over his head. With a blast of energy which nearly knocked down everyone in the hall, it came alive in a blinding flare of power.

He faced his vassals. "Go, my Lords!" he rapped. "Go, and prepare for war. Gather your levies and your ships."

Instantly, the hall began to empty as the Lords of the Eldar scattered to carry out their King's bidding. Doronond accepted the scabbard of Mergil from Surya and sheathed the sword. "I had forgotten the satisfactions of command," he said with some relish.

The meeting broke up, and small knots of conversation formed among those left behind. Kobort sought out Thraldor, and asked if he would introduce him to a wizard specialized in Stafflore. This the wizard did, and Kobort asked the elf if he could enhance the stored energy of the Staff of Defence he'd captured from the Kin captain of the Kobur army. The wizard stared at the staff for a while, then informed Kobort that such could be done, though at the cost of rendering the staff what he called "slightly unpredictable". Kobort accepted with thanks.

Surya and Hildraft were consulting with Elverandil. The mastersmith was deeply impressed already that they had retrieved the sword. This was only increased when Hildraft told him of the Hammer of Grispere and its' capabilities. The Mastersmith turned the tool in his hands, examining it closely. At last he spoke. "Your people have come on so much in the years since the War," he said, "even poor Durgeddin could not have achieved this. Something, though... something about it is strangely familiar, somehow."

Hildraft exhanged glances with Surya, then reached into his pack. "We had help," he said. "To be specific: we had your help." He dropped Elverandil's own Journals on the table in front of him. The Mastersmith laughed. "So you penetrated the secrets of the House of Swords as well, eh?" he said. "More than ever I am sure Celondil and his friends are right. We must never underestimate you mortals again!" It was clear that the Mastersmith believed that Hildraft had forged the Hammer personally. "I think the Gods have ordained that it is your role to bear this last guardian of our purpose," he said.

Kobort joined them at this point, clearly bursting with questions for Elverandil. He unsheathed and placed on the table the weapon he'd taken from the Kin Artila. Elverandil looked at it with some surprise. "The Dyvka!" he said. "And on its' own. Do you have the Anakha?" Kobort shook his head. "They were a set," continued Elverandil, "Anakha-Dyvka, the complete Daisho is called. They were carried by a traveller from a land far, far to the southwest of here, a man who called himself Shuku Hadashi. He was a master in the art of using such weapons, a fighting technique he called kenjutsu, that I have never seen before or since. He taught me some of the fundamentals; if you are going to carry his weapon, you had better learn some or else you'll take your own head off - and you will never unlock the deeper powers of Anakha-Dyvka until you are properly familiar with the fighting style required."

He sighed. "Hadashi went off with the Elvenhost to the last battle outside Lantalaure," he said sadly, "he must have fallen there. I take it you recovered the Dyvka from a servant of Varkar Barduric?" Kobort nodded. "A weapon of the quality of the Anakha would not lie undiscovered on the battlefield," he continued. "It is likely in the hands of another of the blasphemous Kin."