Light Of Loreandril (54 page)

Govan just smirked, but the envoy seemed surprised, perhaps flustered by the surprising audacity of the elf.
A second soldier urged his horse forward several paces towards to comrades. “Do not speak so hastily, Master Elf, or your option of a treaty will be withdrawn.” His voice was
his usual supercilious, tainted with a hint of acidity. To him this conversation was unnecessary, he wanted to see these elves rot once and for all.
 

Eilendan immediately knew it was Canvil, the man who had tortured him. He moved to spur his horse forward, his hand ready to draw his sword in anger to kill the man that had disfigured him,
but
Nilean
caught his arm

“Why would we wish to discuss a treaty that I am sure sees all Elves die at your masters’ hands?”
seethed
Theonil.

“Indeed. But, for all involved it would be a far kinder, quick death. Execution is surely better than dying from a festering war wound, or blood loss,” Canvil
jested, waving his hand in a somewhat cavalier manner.

“Then you clearly underestimate the strength of the Elves and their Allies.”

The horses stamped their hooves angrily, sensing the
increasing
tension. The enemies stared at each other, not breaking their gaze once, even with the weaving, sidling movement of the horses beneath them.

Govan cut the silence.
“Then I am assuming you
refuse
a truce?”
He casually drew a concealed dagger from his thigh, inspecting the edge, adding insult by scraping dirt from under a fingernail.
 

Eilendan bit.
“The very thought is an insult to all Elves, Allies and Ancestors that fought before us!”
Faced with these three, his two tormentors and a bumbling envoy, he was losing patience.
 

“Very well, have it your way. It is what we would prefer anyway.” Govan began turning his horse to ride back to his lines but caught the eye of Nymril. “I’m impressed you have survived!  I look forward to a demonstration of your
magic
, I
hope I dont
kill you
before you get chance
!”

Nymril did not rise to the bait, instead maintaining her composure, she refused even to look at the man. She could wait to target him on the battlefield. He would definitely
regret not having killed her when he had opportunity

Talk was over.
With nothing else left to say, both parties turned and rode back to their lines.

“How many do you think they are?” Neornil held Nymril’s horse as  slid to the ground. Although most of her strength had returned, the slightest exertion tired her quickly.

“Too many to count,” she replied, pausing for a moment, leaning against her horse.

“And it is a hellish host indeed,” Eilendan stated, as he helped Nymril into the command tent. A seat was quickly made available for her.

“It would seem our enemy has mastered the art of conjuring spirits of their own.” Theonil shook his head as he studied the map of the battlefield. The Minda Dwarves had begun arranging an array of objects representing different groups of ally and enemy troops.

“We should let them make the first move.” The short Minda dwarf was standing upon a wooden stool so he could see the map. He pushed forward several ebony stones representing the enemy, demonstrating a possible move. “They are arrogant and are quite likely to attack us head on.” His voice was quick with a slight nasally tone.

There were several murmurs of agreement from the other Minda dwarves as they watched their comrade continue explaining their strategy.

“They will most likely send a mixture of beasts and men. I doubt they will have determined a strategy themselves, so they will probably try to hit us hard.”

“But we will be ready for it,” Nilean replied, his arms folded across his armoured chest, as he too studied the map intently.

“Indeed!” continued the dwarf. “We will wait until they are just in range and then our archers will fire several volleys, from here and here.” He pointed to the two white stones engraved with the archer’s symbol; they were stationed upon the hillside behind them. “This will cause their lines to falter, slowing their advance. That is when our flanking archers will fire several more volleys!”

“They will become disorientated and their numbers reduced!” added another dwarf eagerly, standing beside his comrade. It was clear these strategists enjoyed preparing such battle plans.

“But we cannot rely on arrows alone. They are a finite resource!” interrupted Eilendan.

“Yes, yes!” The second dwarf flapped his hand at Eilendan, dismissing his statement, irritated the elf dared to question their plans. “That’s why the Aeonate guards will go in to dispense with the rest of them.”

“While they are disorientated!” finished the first dwarf.

“That’s all good and well, we might be able to deal with the first attack, but what are your plans for the rest of the army? We are heavily outnumbered!”

“Well…..we haven’t quite decided upon that yet.”

“There are many variables as to how the enemy will react to the result of the first attack. They may attack more ferociously, or perhaps more cautiously,” exclaimed the third dwarf enthusiastically.

“So, what do you suggest? That we wait and see?” Nilean shared Eilendan’s doubts. “That’s fine for you up here, but what about the rest of us on the front line?”

“We will signal to you and the other commanders as soon as we read the enemy’s strategy.”

Their confidence somewhat shaken, the captains returned to the front line to await the enemy’s first move. They did not have to wait long.

The Rjukhan knew that the Elves had the Aeonorgal, they could easily pick out the bright light piercing their conjured blackness. They laughed at the foolish, arrogant Elves for bringing it with them, they were making the same mistakes all over again.

The waiting was over. Orders were sent to the frontline, commanding the first battalions of foot soldiers to advance. These men were untrained, having only just been drafted, but they were expendable. They would be used to determine the strength and positions of the allied forces. Once they knew the Elvish strategy, this information would be used to formulate their own divisive plan. It all hinged on where the allied archers were.

Having been unable to capture the Aeonorgal the Rjukhan realised this battle might not be over as quickly as they had originally hoped, but they remained confident that they could win on numbers. Victory was theirs for the taking, as it was all those centuries ago.

The dwarves’ plan worked perfectly. The back-line archers were the first to fire, waiting until the enemy came into range of their long bows. They sent three, streaming volleys of silver-tipped arrows which quickly cut through the foot soldiers’ lines. The most skilful Elven archers used spiralling arrows,
cleverly crafted to bore
through several soldiers at a time, only becoming embedded in
the final
body once
all
momentum had been lost.

Just as predicted, many of the soldiers, in a state of disarray, broke formation and began retreating in fear for their lives.
Like black ants they scrambled backwards, pushing against the shields behind them.
 

At this point the flanking archers, who had lain hidden, fired their volleys. The arrows whistled through the air, hardly audible to the human ear. Most of the
imperial
soldiers had no chance to defend themselves with their shields, many being pierced in the back as they ran.
Most that fell, did so before the realisation they had been pierced

W
ith
impeccable
timing, following the
second flanking volley, several allied battalions leapt forward
in
to
action,
making short work of the r
emaining enemy troops.

Only a handful of elves received minor injuries, most returned unharmed to reform the frontline. They had successfully defeated the first attack, but it was far from over. There were still at least ten times as many waiting in the dark ranks to fight.

Not a single soul returned from the enemy’s first advance, but the Rjukhan had predicted that outcome. It was worth the loss. Now they knew exactly where to aim their next strike.

“When will I get a chance?” griped Gaular, clutching the stout handle of his war hammer. “I can smell the blood of our dead foe.” He was almost salivating at he thought of killing the enemy, eager to reap his revenge. Every muscle in his body was taut, ready for the attack.

“Your time will come, my friend. Don’t be so hasty. Conserve your strength,” laughed Jaidan. The clansman stood patiently, maintaining his calm disposition. His keen eyes scanned the dark, surging line of the enemy ranks, helmets and shields highlighted by the flashes of lightning, and the occasional bloodshot beam from the red moon.

Gaular took heed of his friend’s advice and forced himself to relax, letting the head of his hammer drop with a heavy thud. “Do you suppose the two boys will be all right? If only there had been more time to train them, especially Nechan.”

“I am not sure we could have taught him any more,” sighed Jaidan. “Besides, we should be more worried about his brother. He is clearly still suffering with an old injury.”

The duo fell silent, both feeling some responsibility for dragging the boys into this battle. The echo of drums, marshalling the next attack, interrupted their deep contemplation.

This time, the Dark Lords sent forward an array of fighters: a turbulent mixture of foul beasts and elite soldiers.

Govan proudly led these advancing lines, seated upon his ebony stallion, both animal and man dressed in the black armour of the Empire. Held up high the tasselled flags, bearing the emblem of the three hands, billowed and flapped in the wind.

Behind these lines large black-horned oxen strained and lowed as they dragged huge wooden and metal constructions through the compacted mud. The Elves would be unable to anticipate this attack. These weapons were of the Rjukhan’s creation, the likes of which had never been seen on a battlefield. They would help clear the way for the foot attack.

The Elves and Allies did not cower at the sound of the drums or the vision of the approaching horde. The air slowly filled with the clamour of howls and snarls, but even this did not deter the frontline. They had faith in their strength, confident that the power of the Spirit Star would protect them.

Only when the advancing line unexpectedly halted did confusion take hold of the allied ranks. Even the Minda Dwarves and Elders could not work out what foul plan the enemy was concocting. An eerie silence hung in the still air. A peculiar, pungent smell wafted towards them on the breeze.  
What was this strange, new magic?

Up on the hilltop Nechan and Cradon were unable to see anything due to the hazy darkness. Sometimes they thought they saw glints of enemy shields and spears, mingled with the occasional spark or glow of a fire towards the back, but it was all indistinct.

Both boys had participated in the earlier volleys and felt satisfied they were holding their own alongside the other archers. Neither they nor the allies around them knew what was happening until it hit.

The oxen had pulled the catapults into position. They stood invisible in the darkness. Within minutes they were loaded with the Rjukhan’s own explosive missiles and ready to fire.

Upon command, soldiers whipped the oxen. The beasts strained against the taut metal and wooden frames, pulling the ropes tighter and tighter, until the catapult was locked into firing position. At the signal, the levers were released. The frames snapped back into position, throwing their projectiles high into the air.

The allies remained unaware of what was coming towards them until the black missiles suddenly burst into cobalt-blue flames. They sailed over the front lines, dropping scorching embers upon the soldiers below which ate through armour and shields, burning their flesh. They landed amidst the archers upon the rear and flanking hills, exploding into furnace-hot fireballs, igniting everything nearby instantly. Upon impact, shards of molten material were ejected for maximum, cruel effect.

With no warning, the allied archers had little time to flee. Even once the bombs had hit, those that were fortunate to survive were stunned into paralysis, listening to the horrifying screams of their comrades being burnt alive.

The first hit was devastating, ripping through the archer lines like wildfire. Even as far away as the enemy command tent, the screams and the stench of burning flesh were overwhelming.

“I thought Jaidan said we would be out of harm’s way up here?” yelled Cradon as he pulled his brother’s arm, running out of the way. They stood panting, still in shock, as they used their shields to protect themselves from the mounds of spitting embers.

“He did!” replied Nechan breathlessly.

The heat was still intense. The brothers were surrounded by screaming archers who were writhing in agony as comrades tried to help them, batting at the flames in an attempt to put them out before their victim died.

One of the flaming missiles had narrowly missed the twins. Their armour had become scalding hot to the touch, but thankfully it had not melted, and none of the flying embers had landed on them. A little more to the right and they would have been easily hit. It had been a lucky escape.

Most archers died quickly, their burns too severe to be healed. Only a few received minor burns, purely by luck, having been just far enough away to survive the inferno.

Down below, on the plains, there was nothing the allies could do, except listen to the screams and wails from the hilltop.

The enemy took little time to reload and hurl more deadly projectiles. This time they did not come as a surprise. Expecting further bombardment, the Elves knew what they were listening for. With sharp, Elvish ears, many heard the faint whirr of gliding missiles before they burst into flames. They were able to sound advanced warnings with a medley of silver horns. The archers looked to the sky waiting for them, scrabbling out of the way once the trajectory paths were determined.