As Seregrían becomes more accustomed to the company of the Dwarves of Durin’s Folk, and enamored of their hoarded lore and knowledge, the Dwarves in turn share a growing respect for the enigmatic Elf-scholar who wields arcane weapons at their side in battle. Hall by hall, deep by deep, the Iron Garrison plunges into the dark of the mansions of Durin, with the Blood-queen in the vanguard blazing their trail.
Scouts have reported back that the hideous creatures of darkness called the Merrevail have claimed part of the upper halls as their lair, a springboard from which to conquer the rest of Khazad-dûm. Brogur and Bosi will not allow the merrevail to befoul the halls any longer, so they dispatch a scout party, with Seregrían in their company, to find out all they can and look for a way to reduce the lair by storm. The Dwarves do their work well, and locate the entries to the lair, and Seregrían goes forth to confront the beasts. But imagine her surprise when upon seeing a morroval scout, she is not attacked, but hailed!
“Greetings, Heart-sister, for such we call you,” comes the husky, sultry voice of the dark she-bat. “We have heard your name, Blood-queen, and see a kindred heart in you. Come, I am told you’re granted audience with She Who Must Be Obeyed.”
So now, Seregrían fearlessly walks in the company of a servant of the Dark, to parley with the merrevail and learn more of their plans, her fires banked – for now. They walk side by side, both looking ahead and not at each other.
“You know me,” Seregrían says, “but if we are as you say, heart-sisters, by what name shall I call you?” She looks sidelong at her guide and can see a smile more like a leer.
“Call me Gwathwethil, if you wish,” is the reply.
Shade-sister, how fitting, Seregrían thinks. “And tell me, O Gwathwethil, how is it that She Who Must Be Obeyed sees fit to grant me audience, rather than assail me on sight?”
A short silence, then, “Had you been of the Stunted People, we would. Since you traffic with them, we should. Your elegant displays of power and anger stay Her hand, until She decides what course to offer you.”
“And tell me, ‘sister’, what course would the merrevail offer that I might entertain?”
“Why, what better course than to serve and obey Her! Not only to prolong your own life, but the chance to learn even greater power for your anger’s release. Is that not what you truly desire? She can provide delectable delights for you if you only obey.”
Seregrían halts in her tracks. “I already possess delights of my own making, far from these halls and beneath the stars. She cannot provide what I already own, so spare me your words, sister. Have you nothing else to offer?”
Gwathwethil rounds on her, her face now a contorted mask. “Only this, that you give Her one service – as sport! Hers is the audience, so make your death pleasing to Her!” And the morroval lunges at her – an instant too late. For Seregrían was not unprepared, weapons flashing into her hands and dodging the first strike – the fight is on!
The vast cavern of Tith-maudhûl becomes an arena for the Merrevail, as the winged horrors gather to watch an epic contest unfold on the cavern floor. Seregrían squares off against the morroval who calls herself Gwathwethil. But the wary elf is not easy prey, as she brandishes her twin weapons – making no sudden or complex moves, hiding her skills and true power until her opponent makes her first mistake.
Backwards and forwards the two wheel and lunge, a circling dance around an ever-moving center. Gwathwethil strikes; Seregrían deftly counters. Seregrían feints; Gwathwethil lashes out with razor-sharp pinions. Their faces tell the tale of battle: the morroval is all snarling rage, the elf is icy contempt; but the eyes of both are the same, pent-up fury screaming to be let out. Seregrían’s gambit is paying off as Gwathwethil’s frustration rises with each pass, falling a little out of balance each time. The she-bat makes a desperate play, taunting her opponent once again.
“Your blood boils within you, heart-sister. Shall I chill it for you?” And the air is rent with the dreaded scream of the merrevail, which freezes the will and limbs and opens the victim to slaughter. Seregrían counters with a Word of Command: Hebo Le Deleth Nin! The sound of Gwathwethil’s voice impacts the air over Seregrían’s heart – and freezes in its turn, leaving the elf untouched.
“And that proves we are not sisters, dark-wing,” Seregrían replies in a voice as icy as the air. “You cannot touch my heart, there are few who can – and you are not they!”
Gwathwethil steps back, her face twisted with anger but her eyes betraying doubt; such power, to defy the merrevail, not possible! “Then perhaps we shall find others who can. Sisters! The sport is open!” At her shout, three more merrevail descend to the cavern floor and advance on Seregrían, while she retreats out of reach. “Find her heart, sisters, and take it!” The three alight on the cavern floor and begin spreading apart, presenting no easy target for the Elf-scholar’s wrath.
They’re toying with me, they’re making sport of me, Seregrían thinks. She brandishes her weapons with daring circles, her sword twirling slowly in her left hand, her bejeweled staff cold and stiff in her right. She knows by intuition that her power will flash forth by the humming vibration in the wood, but the last Word of Command depleted its energy; it will take moments longer to build back the power she needs. And for these opponents, only one power will serve…
These merrevail are clever. They watched as the elf rendered their screams useless, thus they confine their assaults to the slashing of their talons and claws, and press home their assault with claws and words.
“This one doesn’t like us very much, eh sisters?” one hisses.
“Not in the least, such gratitude for Her hospitality,” the second says, licking her lips in anticipation. “Does she not realize the honor that She will bestow upon her?”
“She Who Must Be Obeyed is most displeased with the she-elf,” says the third, a silver-haired creature who might have been called beautiful were she other than merrevail. “This sport ends now. So, heart-sister, even though you spurn the honor – have you any last words to share before Her will becomes your end?”
Seregrían meets their eyes each in turn, and the merrevail see a face with a smile that might be mistaken for one of their own, twisted with building fury. For just at the right moment, the familiar humming in her staff has returned. And she replies in a voice dripping with malice:
“Why yes, ‘sisters’, I have just one word for each of you – DOSTACH AEN!!”
And the merrevail scream, this time in agony, for Seregrian’s staff and sword bring down blazing fire and smashing lightning, turning the very stones they stand on to molten slag, splashing up and covering them in withering tongues of power. And in an instant, the fight is over, as the merrevail char and die by the Blood Queen’s hand!
