Enmity
n/b: This was written nigh on 3 years ago, it is not a modern piece but a piece from the first online campaign held here, yet it is also part of the Dark Empires saga. I found it in the depths of my Hard Drive today, so enjoy.
VM

Fire rained down upon the city of Tor Yvresse.
In bronze-cast jars, cast from the rings of ballista surrounding the city, it showered down upon the once-luminous crystal walls, now a horrible scorched and pitted black, exploding forth as the jars shattered, releasing their flaming message in swift staccato and bass rumbles in the chill air of dawn. Bursts of flame rose up through the thick Yvressan fog.
The roar of ielthain heralded the second stage of assault. Lines of battle mages chanted words of arcane power, tearing at the walls, sending the fire-oil converging at the weakest points of the wall, summoning fire and air and water and earth to rend the enemy defences. They were met by the city?s defences, spells of warding and protection upon the walls themselves, and the counterspells of the hundred mages within the city, "to put you back on schedule."
Ainare smiled, politely. "But, Isilion, we are on schedule. Perfectly so."
"Explain."
"I could have taken this city within a week, if speed had been my only concern. But the enemy commander, Lord Zrexlan, is extremely capable. He knows I have a stronger position and a stronger army, but should I have to face him over the ramparts, he would extract such a cost in blood from me that it would break both of us. The cost in lives to take this city swiftly would be catastrophic."
"So," Ainare continued, "I declined to play his game. The advantage he has is the walls, correct? If they can be breached, it would be much easier to meet him on my terms, and break his position."
"So you've been working on breaching the walls," Isilion said sourly. "You don't seem to have made much progress."
"On the contrary," Ainare said gravely. "I have made excellent progress."
"Have you really?" Isilion sneered, angered afresh by his upstart arrogant general. "I don't see any signs of it."
"Because you look in the wrong place. The usual tactics for taking a city are to use a magical assault, and ielthain fire to weaken the wall, correct?"
"Which is what you've been doing. Unsuccessfully."
"Correct, to a point. Lord Zrexlan of course expects, since I am not pursuing a frontal assault, that I will employ ielthain and magic to destroy the walls, and so I am not disappointing him. However, all these attacks are merely a diversion. Every single attack against the city has been magical, all the ielthain pots were enchanted so they give off a magic aura. Zrexlan's mages have been too busy stopping all the threats we gave him, to notice what we?ve been doing with those they've defeated. All the ielthain they've stopped has been teleported into those fine crystal walls."
Isilion blinked. "So," he said suspiciously, "why haven't you taken the city yet?"
"I was going to," Ainare said, "and then I heard you were coming. I thought you might like to see us reclaim the seat of your power personally."
Before Isilion could respond, the lanky general turned to one of the many Asur walking through the camp, an archer captain by the look of her. "Are the troops ready, Tari?"
"Yes, my lord," Tari Calanor said. "They merely await your order."
"Their order is to attack once the walls are destroyed. Which will be shortly. Also, give the order to the ballista to fire on the fifth wall."
"Yes, my lord," the captain said.
"Very soon, Isilion," Ainare said, "you will see the sack of Tor Yvresse."
"Your familiarity is vulgar," the High Prince grumbled. "And it's about time. The others of the Council of Princes are talking about my inability to contain this "minor insurrection". My political standing is plummeting, and it's all your fault."
Ainare glanced inscrutably at him. "Politics?"
"Yes, politics. Not that I'd expect you to understand that. You just play with your swords and do your job for once and let me handle the important things."
"Very well, Isilion," Ainare said blandly. "Now, my orders should have been issued by now, so please cast your eyes upon that wall there."
He pointed. Isilion squinted, but could not make out which wall the general was referring to.
"Which one? Blast this mist, I can't see!"
Whatever Ainare was saying in response was inaudible, for at that moment the wall exploded. Litres of liquid fire, moved by mages inside the wall itself, now struck by a barrage of flaming ielthain jars, ignited with devastating effect. The force of the shockwave caused the very ground to shake. Isilion could not hear the explosion either, for it was a volume too loud to express. A pillar of incandescent white flames bellowed forth into the sky, a roiling fireball. And then it was gone, and the silence was deafening. Half of the great southern crystal wall had vanished, and flames washed across the southern half of Tor Yvresse.
The armies of Caledor the Conquerer poured across the Yvraine Field towards a city in chaos.

"Zrexlan," Ainare said, "has escaped."
The two, High Prince and general, were standing around a small table in the heart of Tor Yvresse. The battle for the city was over, having lasted a few scant hours, and now the two leaders plotted their next move in the great palace of Tor Yvresse.
"That is why the defences were so light," Ainare said. "Rather than be caught between our army and the city walls, he fled the city shortly after we destroyed the western wall with a large portion of his army, heading south."
Isilion snarled, "And why didn't you catch him? You, great general, have cavalry; you should have brought him to bay like some wild pig and destroyed him as a rabid menace. Rather than let him go free. Now he'll just go and raise a new army, and we'll have to do this all again."
"We?" Ainare said. His emotionless exterior was cracking. "We?"
"Stop repeating yourself "yes, we."
Ainare swung around to face him. "What we? has there been in this? I captured the city, I drove out the Butcher of Tor Yvresse."
"You took four months to do nothing. On the day I arrived, the city fell. And I will be telling the Council as much. It's politics, you'd never understand," the High Prince said patronising.
"I think it's you who wouldn't understand!" Ainare growled. "How can you claim credit? you don't even know what fighting is, I've fought every battle for you since this war began, and you've done nothing but talk, talk, talk. Do you know what it's like to kill your fellow elf? Knowing that all you're doing is your duty, and all he's doing is the same, and twenty years ago you could have been friends, comrades-in-arms? Do you have any idea what it's like to be the one who has to destroy their own city's greatest treasure?"
"And what do you understand?" Isilion shouted. "All you know is the swing of your sword, you're irresponsible! All your spare time, wenching and drinking. You make me sick!"
"Drinking, yes," Ainare hissed. "It takes the bad taste out of my mouth I have whenever I finish talking to you"
"Damn you, Ardagnirhir! Watch your tongue!" Isilion strode to the door, face livid with rage. "So help me, if you cross me one more time, I will destroy you. All you'll be good for is a footnote in history, the incompetent fool who lost Yvresse!"
Then he was gone, and Ainare breathed deeply through his nose, calming himself. Isilion managed to stir this kind of reaction in him every time they spoke. He was certainly abrasive.
The door opened again, and Tari Calanor entered again. "Lord Ainare?"
"What is it, Tari?"
"Outriders have located the Butcher. He has joined up with a new army and is currently camped outside the White Rocks. Approximately two thousand strong."
Ainare contemplated swiftly. "We have one thousand eight hundred, correct?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Outnumbered, but not badly. And the White Rocks are only a few hours outside the city. Assemble the army; we go in pursuit of Lord Zrexlan, to destroy him once and for all."
Tari Calanor nodded and departed, and Ainare sat himself on a short stool, and cast his keen eyes over the map. He had plans to make.

The White Rocks were a triple pinnacle of stone spires, twisting up and about each other into the sky. Their shadow was cast long upon the fields of Yvresse, and under that shadow two thousand warriors readied themselves, holding themselves orderly in ranks.
Far more orderly than I was expecting, Ainare admitted to himself. For all that he had fought against Zrexlan?s forces for years now, he found he had always underestimated the Butcher of Tor Yvresse. He could see now, against the base of the towering rock formation, the war standard of his opposite number, a blue field with a silver spear upon it.
"You will not wish to be here when the fighting starts," Ainare said clinically. "Isilion, go wait with the baggage."
Beside him, the red-faced elf started to bluster, but the general cut him off. "This area will become a slaughter-field. You will die if you stay in the front lines."
Isilion nodded. "You'd better do your job properly for once. I expect to see your enemy being routed today!"
"They will be, never fear."
Isilion nodded and turned his horse, riding into the back ranks. Ainare watched him go with his usual bland expression forcibly upon his gaunt face. No one angered him as much as the pompous, self-righteous High Prince. It took extreme self-control not to throw all plans to the winds and try to throttle Isilion.
"Tari?"
His captain was there immediately, her thick brown braid swinging behind her. ?Yes, my lord?"
"Order the signal corps to give the sign to advance."
The two armies moved slowly together. Arrows raced through the air overhead, and elves fell, slain by grey-fletched shafts. And then, with a sound eclipsing all else, the phalanxes of spearmen slammed into each other, and battle was joined. Ainare hung back somewhat from the fray, he had no intention of concerning himself with the common warriors. He had no great argument against them, and had the blood of too many on his hands already. His prize this day would be Zrexlan, the Butcher himself. And there was his standard now, advancing through the melee. Beneath it, he could see Zrexlan, a grey-armoured figure wielding a spear in both hands with great skill.
"There! Charge!" Ainare shouted, and kicked his steed into a gallop towards the standard. His bodyguard of ithiltain knights followed in his wake, hooves churning up the turf. Blades brandished, they struck the enemy line and crumpled it before the weight of their impact. Lines of spears closed around them, and one of the knights fell, spitted by a dozen spears. The rest hacked and slashed, dancing their horses about to avoid the spears which threatened to impale them.
Ainare turned his steed away from the melee. The blue and silver banner loomed, massively, before him. Alone he rode towards it. Twice an enemy soldier tried to come in his way, but with swirling sweeps of his blade he dispatched them and continued his advance.
"Lord Zrexlan, I presume!" Ainare shouted.
The grey armoured warrior turned and looked at him. "Ainare Ardagnirhir?" Zrexlan's black hair was lank with perspiration against his head. The blocky-featured warrior smiled. "Come to finish this, one-on-one?"
Ainare slid from his saddle. "Indeed. My sword, your spear, and that will decide this whole mess."
Zrexlan's smile grew. "You are indeed a great warrior, Ainare. There is much honour in you. I salute you."
Ainare was surprised. He had finally met his enemy, and rather than the monster he had expected, something much like Isilion, in fact, his archnemesis was in fact rather pleasant and congenial.
"You should not speak about my honour until you know me better," Ainare said. "Shall we?"
"Certainly."
Zrexlan charged, spear leading the way. Ainare pulled himself aside and batted the weapon aside with a circular motion of his blade, stepping closer to his enemy. He slashed twice, and his foe fell back, bringing his spear shaft before him to ward off the attacks, before suddenly lashing forward with the butt end of his spear. It struck Ainare's lofty helm, and the general staggered, his head ringing. Almost immediately Zrexlan was upon him, stabbing and feinting with a numbing speed, and now it was Ainare who was forced to retreat, blade cutting circular arcs in the air. Metal rang against metal.
And then suddenly Ainare was charging, and they both struck at each other as they passed, before spinning around to face each other again. The side of Zrexlan's face was open, and blood ran down his jaw. Ainare ignored the incredible pain in his shoulder, where the spear had driven beneath the armour and into his flesh, and spun his sword again in midair.
"You are indeed skilled," Zrexlan admitted.
"I've worked hard to become so," the gaunt general remarked flippantly, and charged. His blade lashed out, striking the tip of the ithilmar spear. Sparks flew as metal grinded against metal as Ainare forced his enemy's weapon aside, and then Ainare struck, serpent-swift. The spear too far out to stop the blow, Zrexlan could not stop the blade as it struck his face. Fortunately, if such it could be called, it was the pommel that struck him, but even so he spluttered blood as his nose exploded in a shower of red. He staggered, and Ainare struck again at his right hand, shearing through thick leather glove and fingers, and the spear fell with them. Zrexlan howled, Ainare delivered his final blow, sending the maimed Butcher spinning to the ground, still alive. A second later Ainare's foot landed on his foe's breastplate, and his sword was level with Zrexlan's neck.
"Yield," he snarled.
Zrexlan's face was pale. "To be executed later?"
"I don't want to kill you. Yield! No further harm will come to you if you do."
"Very well... yield."
About them, the battle had paused. Zrexlan's standard bearer gaped, his face comically akin to some sort of fish.
"Good," Ainare said. "Now... you have troops in reserve, correct? Tell them to charge at the left flank."
"Wha...?"
"Tell them!" Ainare shouted, striking Zrexlan hard across the face. "Our line, their line, is weak there. You'll break through and be able to encircle the right flank."
"I don't understand."
"You don't need to understand, beyond this I've defected. I am your lord now, Zrexlan. Doubt me and I will kill you. And as my first act on your side, I intend to deliver my old army to you."
Zrexlan looked at the standard bearer. "Do what he says. Give the order."
"Good," Ainare said. "Good."

"We have some prisoners... my lord."
Corpses were heaped high upon the battlefield, being assembled by the survivors into a mass pyre. Ainare stood at the base of the White Rocks. His defection had gone perfectly. There was but one part of his triumph missing, but that would come shortly.
"You captured the baggage train as was instructed?"
"Yes. One of the prisoners has been wanting to meet you. He has been quite vocal about it."
"Excellent. Bring him up."
Shackled, the High Prince of Yvresse was led towards the new commander of Malekith's army in Yvresse. "Damn you, Ainare, you black hearted traitor! You'll pay for this...!"
Ainare cut him off. "Your threats are tiresome even when they're fulfilled, Isilion. And you have no chance of fulfilling them this time."
"You will die, Ainare, someday, and when you do I hope you spend your time in Morai-Heg's halls burning in hell!"
"If I do, you will certainly know, because you, Isilion, are going to them much sooner than I."
Isilion started to say something, but Ainare cut him off by slapping him hard across the face. The High Prince looked at him, aghast.
"If you want to know why I defected, Isilion, it is all your fault that this came to pass. With you in charge, the blood that is spilt has been catastrophic. Your politics has threatened everything. Only when I am in charge myself, and free from these stupid games, can we start to rebuild Yvresse and end this stupid war. All you'd do is drag it on forever."
"A warrior, against violence? Murder is the only art a swordsman can practice."
If Isilion had any more to say, he was not given a chance to say it, for Ainare spun suddenly, his sword flying from its sheath. There was a splash of blood, and then the headless corpse toppled to the ground.
"How true you are," Ainare said. "But I will rectify that."
He turned from the body of his hated foe and faced Zrexlan. Bandaged and mage-healed, his new second-in-command looked at him with a mixture of horror and admiration.
"You were right about not commenting on your honour, you know," Zrexlan said slowly.
"Send a message to Anlec," Ainare said, ignoring him. "Tell Malekith that I declare myself the new High Prince of Yvresse, and that if he confirms me in that position, I will support him for the rest of my life."
"Immediately."
Ainare left him, wandered over to the pile of heaped corpses. Treachery was repugnant to him, but now, hopefully, no more would have to die like had done so here. It seemed strange that to save Yvresse had involved killing so many. Smoke rose off the pyre, the flames crackled amongst the corpses.
Looking at them, Ainare saw Tari Calanor. His old captain stared accusingly at him, and in her glassy, dead eyes he read the truth. Power and glory for him, Ainare, was his goal. An end to the master he had despised. No grand humanitarian goals. He could lie to himself, but not to the dead.
Tari, his old friend, was dead. Her body was cut in twain, and her innards hung out.
The smoke rose higher, and stung his eyes, and Ainare cried.