I found Glorfindel not long afterwards, though the circumstances of our meeting were somewhat less than ideal. He fought alone in the middle of a grand cavern crossroads, bravely standing his ground against a whirling grey-cloaked dervish of destruction. My peripheral vision perceived a badly-wounded Taggar being tended to by Castor amidst the large rocks; the broken and bloodied bodies of at least ten others were scattered around the walls and floor, some having been cast where they lay by obvious great force.
As if on cue, the necromancer - for who else could it be - caught sight of me in the archway, my swords drawn and anger writ upon my face. He was clad in the all-too-familiar black robes of his trade, although his seemed to fit his form far tighter than either of the others' had. A daemonic mask obscured the majority of his face, carved into a permanent aggressive leer. His staff was long and slender, and tipped at both ends by sharp spear-points that dripped fresh blood onto the dark stone floor. But I was not given the time to focus on such details; barely had I sensed the power coalescing in his open hand before I had ducked below his spell, and the wall behind me had splintered into a thousand shrapnel shards.
If ever before I had envisioned necromancers to be cowardly skulkers who cast their evil magic from the depths of their dark shadows, that particular stereotype was irrevocably erased in the actions of the next few moments. Our foe was not only a master of magic but also a consummate fighter, a warrior-mage much like Glorfindel or myself. When we tried to defeat him with swordsmanship he bested us with his spear; when we resorted to spellcasting instead, his own powers kept us handily at bay. His abilities were not only far greater than my own but also Glorfindel's as well. Only a mixture of desperate teamwork and sheer luck kept us alive.
I have no idea how long we fought, the ring of steel on steel interspersed with the occasional spell and grunt of exertion, every sound echoing hollowly about the cavern. My limbs grew heavy and leaden, as if powered only by desperation; every jolt as my blades clashed against his staff shook my body like an electric shock. It took every last shred of mind-power to be able to correctly anticipate the next attack and force myself to respond to it.
But as Glorfindel and I soldiered on together, it became evident that while we tired, our foe did not suffer from such a weakness. Castor later remarked that it was as if three gods of war were duelling before his eyes, with the exception that only one of them was actually immortal.
To my surprise it was Glorfindel who faltered first, a shallow slash across his thigh sapping the strength from his legs and sending him to his knees. I attempted to hold off the necromancer for long enough to allow Glorfindel to recover, but only lasted ten lightning-quick strokes before his spell sent me flying halfway across the cavern, head over heels until I hit solid rock.
Through blurring vision and receding consciousness, I believe that I somehow managed to stand again, to find the necromancer standing above Glorfindel with spear-staff poised for the killing blow. A despairing fireball did little except to briefly attract attention...
... but then Lord Arminas arrived on the scene, along with Nerdanel, Selinde, spellweaver Daeron, and stern Eru. Like a silent gust of wind he stepped in between Glorfindel and the black-robed necromancer, his green cloak billowing behind him as crescent blade flashed to parry the downward strike. I could swear that there was a brief pause in time as the chime of clashing blades rang out about the chamber, both parties sizing each other up carefully.
Then, as one, they flowed into motion. Never before, not even in the sensei's hall at the Academy, have I seen two such skilled and well-matched opponents in such furious engagement. But the battle was over almost before it had begun, Lord Arminas scoring first blood with a cutting sweep across the necromancer's chest... and the latter, deciding perhaps that discretion was the better part of valour, apparated out with a snap of his fingers and a curious smile dancing behind the confines of his mask.
There was one last surprise to be had, for as the room swarmed with sudden activity and healers rushed to the aid of the wounded, I caught sight of movement in a darkened corner. I could have sworn that I witnessed the glint of magic and a feminine half-smile that soon disappeared in a whisper of stale air, but it seems that nobody else did. As I had received a rather nasty knock to the head at the time, I did not pursue the matter further, and only now that I know that the leader of the Coven was nowhere to be found do I think twice upon it.
And at last, this brings me to the present, when I sit under the protective canopy of an oak tree as twilight once again settles upon these coastal grasslands. My head is tightly bandaged, and I dare not move it for fear of disorientation; unsurprisingly, the wound on my left shoulder has opened once again, and my body aches with a dozen other minor cuts and bruises. But I count myself lucky as the fresh breeze dances upon my face, and I know for a fact that the land seems brighter to our eyes tonight; even the dark shadows cast by our discreet campfires do not seem nearly as ominously threatening as they did the night before.
We have done a great deed this day, putting some of our enemy's most powerful spellcasters to flight. Perhaps now, there is hope once more for the city of Anebrilith.
The only thing I know for sure at the moment, though, is this. With Nerdanel's sharp eyes on lookout and the minions of the night in panicked retreat, I will sleep well tonight for the first time in months.
Perhaps now I can lay my nightmares to rest, for a short while at least.
~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels
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