The Elf swung his sword at Hazim in a scything motion. A former World Breaker, and a great warrior with few equals, he instinctively ducked the attack and sunk to his knees; the cold and refined Elven steel brushed across the top of his bronze helm. The Elf had little time to correct his over confidence, and Hazim sprung a counter offensive in the form of a whirling sabre storm.
The Elderborn were immortal; they lived for thousands of years, and such time had allowed them to hone their skills. Each one of the Mad Prince's soldiers was a legendary fighter in their own right, and unlike Men, they were without flaw. Reason drove the engine in their minds, not passion or love of emotion. Hazim's attacks missed the nimble being, who moved as if a fish through water.
"Yield," hissed the Elf, shortly after catching the large Eblistani in the chin with the elaborate pommel of his ancestral sword.
Hazim stumbled backwards, seeing stars. Blood matted his curly black beard. "You first, scum," he mumbled.
The Elf sighed, and renewed his attack. Hazim matched him, blow for blow and for a moment both warriors seemed on equal footing.
Though whilst Elves were without flaw and pure of mind, they lacked Man's recklessness. Hazim threw himself at his smaller, wiry opponent, taking them both down in a clatter of armour and lost weapons. With his large meaty hands, Hazim throttled the Elf, driving his fingers into the poor creature's neck with blinded malice.
"Die, die, die!" he screamed, as if willing the Elf to simply cease existing.
It was not so; Man's recklessness had drawbacks, and suddenly Hazim felt the strength in his arms waning. A wet feeling quickly emerged in his midsection, and he looked down himself with a grimace. The Elf's sword was half submerged in his lower side, having found itself between two plates of ornate bronze.
The Elf chuckled hoarsely, "you vermin are all the same; stupid, emotional and blind to your own folly."
Hazim tried to utter back a curse, but a carriage of blood erupted from his lips, spattering the Elf's face.
"Duaranar! Duranar! Duranar!" cried the Mamaluks, mixing their ranks with the Elven vanguard.
Their organised retreat had not lasted long, for the Elves had made quick the distance. Not appreciating the thought of being shot in the back by the refined archery of the Elderborn, Hazim had ordered his men to turn and fight, and now a hundred of Mundhir's best shed their life blood in earnest against the Mad Prince's overwhelming tide.
A flash of light, followed swiftly by the stomach grinding roar of a thunder clap.
Mundhir gasped, and immediately winced as his eyes were overcome by the bright white of his surrounds.
"What?" He managed weakly; his words echoed from walls unseen and returned to him ten times their original volume. He clasped his ears, twisting and turning in agony as his ear drums braced against the incessant and maddening assault.
"So," said a voice, harsh as iron, "you have come, my Champion."
Mundhir knew that voice as if it were his father's. He was having another Righteous Vision, and once more Duranar had come to grace him with his infinite wisdom.
"My highest lord," Mundhir moaned, struggling to his feet as his stomach lurched. "What- where am I?"
"Open your eyes, and you will see, my Son," the voice replied; no echoes resonated.
Mundhir's eyes struggled to withstand the brightness of his surroundings, but he focused hard, fighting against his natural desire to close them. And then, as if a thousand brushes had descended on a blank canvas at once, he saw a large grassy field. The sounds of a faraway battle quickly followed the sharpening image before him, and for a moment a spell of dizziness threatened to knock him from his feet.
As if being willed into existence from thin air, shapes started to emerge on the field. Warriors, Elves and Men, locked in deadly battle. He looked around, for a moment terrified he had woken up outside Baalor in the thick of Hazim's mission, and was about to be impaled by the Man Prince's men.
"My Lord!" yelled one of the many figures, making for Mundhir; he looked at the man, and knew him not, for he wore a foreign attire.
"Me?" Mundhir asked stupidly, completely lost in the confusion of it all.
"What is it?" Shouted a second voice - that same voice - Duranar's voice.
With a gasp, Mundhir turned and his heart shuddered with what he saw with such clarity. He immediately fell to his knees before a large armoured figure - a man no less - clad in thick steel plates and holding the legendary standard of the World Breakers Clan of Northern Olcra. Mundhir knew the image well, for it was enshrined in the holiest of holy temples within Eblistan's walls. Only one man had ever carried it, and that man was Ebli Khan.
"King Thrandelmir is threatening our right flank, if we do not react, his Glade Watchers will roll us like a carpet," said the original man Mundhir had seen running towards him.
The large figure did not reply right away, but instead angled his armoured head off towards the east. For several minutes he stared, and Mundhir's courage faltered.
"Release me from this madness," he pleaded. "I know not what you want."
The armoured figure ignored him, and instead looked back at the smaller man. "Assemble my troop; the Elves are wise to push us where they have, for we have oversold ourselves on that front. Not enough reserves... curse their hubris."
Mundhir attempted to make himself heard again, but suddenly the whirling image of bloody battle changed and he found himself at what he presumed was the rear of the Elven lines.
An Elf of impossible years, whose face had wrinkled with a life of innumerable eons, was gripping a kinsmen on the shoulders. Both looked regal, and were dressed in the finest stately gowns of Nillanor. Mundhir knew them immediately.
"You will return to Our City, and ensure the safety of our people," said King Thrandelmir, smiling softly at Thrandel. The young Prince bit back a tear; his father slapped him suddenly. "We are the Elderborn, we do not give in to sorrow," he snapped.
"But father," Thrandel pleaded, "we cannot win here. The Olcrans are slaughtering the Dwarven flank, and if we do not vacate the-"
"Then we will die, I will die," said King Thrandelmir, but with little urgency or irritation. "Our peoples must live on. Take them east, to the realms of the Gnomes, of our Woodland kin, and our Night Kissed brothers across the sea if needs be. You are King now, go with the graces of everything good in this world; the future freedoms of Eulona depend upon it."
Thrandel's lips trembled slightly, but he nodded and turned to leave.
Mundhir recoiled as the landscape shifted again, and there he saw an event unfolding that only the most dedicated Eblistani bards knew mere pieces of.
King Thrandelmir and Ebli Khan squared off in the midst of the battle; Olcran strength against Elven vitality.
Though, if the bards were right in what they knew, Ebli Khan won this fight. And as if trigged by his waking thoughts, the background shifted once more; Mundhir emptied his stomach onto the floor, but noted it fell through the grass as if the ground was made of air.
"Father!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Thrandel, upon a white horse of brilliant heritage, galloped towards Ebli Khan, as the armoured giant repeatedly hacked at the bloodied corpse of the deceased King of Nillanor. The Elven Prince lowered his lance, and had the Khan not been the legendary warrior that he was, he may not have seen the attack in a time.
What Mundhir saw next sickened the deepest depths of his soul. In an instant, his life had become a lie; his visions, heresy.
Then everything went black, and he felt himself falling.
