The soldiers of Eblistan’s rogue prince were cut from finer rock than their peers. Each was a great warrior, with bloodied legacies laden in feats of arms. They were skilled on horse, and matched the Elderborn in the use of the bow. Professionalism and righteous morals stood in high regard from every lieutenant to every soldier, and they were perhaps one of Eulona’s last armies that did not gorge themselves in the deaths of non-combatants. 

As the Silver of the Elderborn host came to a standstill in rigid formation on Baalor’s outskirts, Mundhir’s men remained hidden. They crouched behind ruined walls, or hunkered down in holes dug for purpose. One of the rogue prince’s greatest tactical blessings was in his ability to hide the strength of his force’s disposition to an enemy; such a blessing had won him many victories against Nillanor. 

Prince Thrandel however had approached the ruins with little bravado. He had no more trebuchets, and his army was the dregs of a dying peoples. No one in Eblistan knew for sure how many High Elves still lived, but every time an Elderborn war host assailed the borders, it was always with less soldiers than before. 

It was custom for the Elves to survey Mundhir’s men, working their hawkish eyes to get to the bottom of his tricks and machinations. There were no scouts this time however, and Thrandel’s men looked especially vulnerable in their tight formations. In almost every engagement between Mundhir and the Mad Prince, the battles had started with a skirmish of arrows; not this time, it seemed that Nillanor was prepared to charge the ruins directly. 

Mundhir was certain that this would be folly. The Elves, even in their splendir armour and tall shields, would but cut to pieces by the mamluks as they charged the open plain. When they did finally reach the ruins, then Mundhir’s men would fall upon them from all directions. It would be a slaughter – no – a genocide. The rogue prince grimaced at the thought; this was not who he was, this is what he had tried so valiantly to stop. 

Hazim led the procession of the Prince and his companions. Carrying the banner of Mundhir Sadek proudly, Hazim ushered his steed onwards, and it strutted confidently towards the clinical steel of the Elven army. 

Mundhir was unsure of how to approach this matter. He was desperately eager to avoid bloodshed, but was dreadfully certain that the Mad Prince would have none of it. Thrandel held a certain fire against mankind, especially those that dwelt in Eblistan, and for a long time he had tried to snuff them out. If he attacked, then Mundhir would reclutantly put the Elf down along with his kind – but no doubt the losses his forces would take in the process would cripple him. How long until Basar and Jazeer marched on Baalor? Days? Weeks?

He was thankful for the presence of Tarwin, whose high spirits seemed contagious, and for a moment Mundhir’s heart lifted just by engaging the man in brief small talk. Frelseren’s powerful visage, stomping alongside them on foot, was another heartening blessing. The Prince did not quite trust the creature, out of sheer ignorance of its capabilities, and its ability to apparently see everyone’s past deeds. However, there was no doubt that it was of an honourable disposition, and for now Mundhir would give it as much trust as he could afford. 

The Nymph was uplifting in another way. In her green armour of elaborate design, accompanied by a beautiful malachite studded helm, she looked different; less the strange exotic female, and more a warrior. This slight change in appearance had made it easier for Mundhir to see her for what she was, and as the group came up to the Elven battle line, he ventured a few words to her. 

“When this war has found its conclusion, you will have to show me Uchfos. I have heard it is as beautiful as it is deadly, much like you I dare to presume,” he said with a wink. “Unlike that [i]creature[/i] you’ve chosen to ride."

The Elven lines suddenly parted down the middle; shields and armour clattered as the Elves moved to make room with effortless grace. Down the centre of this clearing, rode Prince Thrandel on a giant white stag. Mundhir urged his horse past Hazim, despite the Captain’s reservations, and met his adversary face to face. 

“Elen sila lumenn omentilmo,” said Mundhir, bowing his head slightly. For the parlay, he had chosen to wear no armour, instead favouring the red silk of his regal house. Hazim had agonised over this for as long as time allowed, but Mundhir needed to show the Elves that today he was a man of peace.

Thrandel sat looking down at Mundhir for what seemed like minutes. Six feet tall, skin as pale as snow, and the awful scars marring his face made the Elven Prince a menacing figure. The several layers of burnishes steel plate that he wore, only added to that perception. 

“I do not exchange words with your kind in my own tongue, little Prince,” Thrandel growled finally. 

“My apologies, my Prince, I meant only respect,” replied Mundhir, bowing for a second time. 

“Bah,” spat Thrandel, “save it for the countless thousands buried beneath our feet, monster.” 

Mundhir sighed. This was not going well. “I do not want to fight you Thrandel, we’ve been killing each other for far too long. Surely you’ve lived enough lives of men to have such wisdom?” 

“You’ve been killing my kind for a thousand years. I have slowly been paying back the favour, little Prince, and today I will grasp the fruits of my long labours. That is the extent of my wisdom,” sneered Thrandel. Blue lips twisted into a wide grin, revealing a mouth with no teeth. 

“Then we cannot avoid battle?” Mundhir asked, preparing to turn his horse from the parlay. 

“I can,” Thrandel hissed. “You can’t, human.” 

Mundhir frowned, “I do not understand, my Prince.” 

“You may go back to Baalor, but you will die there. My master has decreed it,” Thrandel chuckled. Mundhir noted that the Mad Prince’s men did not share their leader’s humour. 

“You have a new King?” Mundir inquired, stroking his bearded chin. 

“In a manner of speaking, yes, but this king is a queen, and she is far more powerful than any worldy ruler,” Thrandel said mockingly. “Return to Baalor, little Prince, and pray to your precious Duranar for deliverance… though I fear you will be answered only with silence.”

“Enough of this madness,” said Mundhir as he reached the end of his patience. He looked at Thrandel’s men. “Your peoples have died, and continue to die for this insane fool? You have my pity, and my love, but none of you shall leave this field alive.” 

Longbows were strung at the Prince’s parting comments, and Hazim dutifully rode in front of him. No arrows were released however, and the procession promptly made its way back to Baalor without incident. 

“I do not like this,” said Mundhir. 

“Me neither, my Prince,” retorted Hazim. “Let’s hit them, hard and fast.” 

“No. I saw his men, they do not believe in his cause; they follow him out of loyalty, or perhaps forlorn hope. Thrandel is a problem that I have allowed to fester long enough. We must slay him,” Mundhir said frowning. “If we can kill him, then his men may disband altogether.”

“You jest Mundhir, how do you propose to kill him?” Hazim gawked, almost falling from his horse. 

“Not me. My companions,” said Mundhir smiling and looking at Kylmi, Tarwin and Frelseren. “What’d you say? Want to end a war in a day? Save thousands? Sign up right here.”