The Elven (76 page)

The Start of the Battle

N
uramon, on Felbion, rode to meet his forces. Wengalf had divided his massive dwarven army into two halves and positioned the Alvemer swords between them. Together, they formed the main fighting force. Nomja’s archers were on the flanks, and the mounted troops were assembled some distance away. He himself would have to decide where the riders would be deployed.

He reached the small circle of commanders gathered in front of the dwarves’ catapults. In their faces, Nuramon clearly saw that there was bad news.

“Good that you are here,” said Nomja. “Our scouts have reported that the main army is marching in our direction. More than fifty thousand soldiers.” She pointed to the chain of hills in the distance; the enemy would come from that direction.

Nuramon could not imagine how many humans that was. His own army numbered less than fifteen thousand.

“The largest force they have ever mustered in one place,” Nomja went on. “And our fertile land is feeding them, as well.”

Nuramon had heard that the humans in the land beyond the Shalyn Falah had felled entire forests to build barracks for the soldiers. The cleared regions had then been turned into fields that provided the invaders with everything they needed to survive.

“The land between the gorge and the forest is far too narrow to hold fifty thousand, and they won’t be willing to fight in the forest,” said Nuramon.

“The warriors from Yaldemee are securing the forest,” said Lumnuon, who was in Nuramon’s clan. The evening before, Lumnuon had visited him in his chamber.

Nuramon looked out to the plain and nodded. This was the right place for the Tjured knights to break through. He turned to Nomja. “You told me that when they fight in the open, they always send their mounted troops in first. How have you defended against them?”

“With bows and arrows. They can’t do much against that. But they are arrogant and not easy to force into a retreat. If they come now in such numbers, the archers alone won’t be able to save us.”

Nuramon turned to the dwarven king. “Wengalf, I suspect you will want to engage the enemy in dragon shell,” Nuramon said, referring to a formation where a troop protected itself with shields on every side and also from above. “Do you still have the pikes you used to use against the dragons?”

“Of course. What do you want us to do?”

“Stop the horsemen like you once stopped Balon.”

Wengalf grinned.

Then Nuramon turned to Nomja. “Your archers will thin out the ranks of the riders, then Wengalf can take over the rest.”

“What do those of us from Alvemer do in the middle?” asked an elf woman named Daryll. She was Obilee’s second-in-command and had only reluctantly accepted Nuramon as their commander.

“The dwarves will give you partisans,” Nuramon explained. “Make sure the enemy horsemen get a good look at them. They will avoid you and try to attack the dwarves instead, but they will only see their pikes when it is too late.” Nuramon turned to Nomja again. “You will need to shoot at the flanks of the horsemen. None can be allowed to get through.”

Then Mandred spoke up. “And what do we do?”

“You and your Firnstayn riders will wait out of sight in the hollow on the right flank. As soon as the enemy is close enough, you will attack from that side. On the other side, I’ll be leading the Alvemer horsemen to do the same.”

Nomja nodded with approval. “My mounted archers will accompany you.”

Lumnuon spoke again. “We of the Weldaron clan will protect our kin.”

Nuramon clapped the young elf on the shoulder. “Nomja will be a good reinforcement for us.”

Wengalf turned to Nuramon. “An excellent plan. When the battle starts, I will advance with my soldiers step by step. The dragon shell will take in an ally but impale any enemy that stands in front of it. Let’s get to work. May destiny be on your side, Nuramon.”

Wengalf and his men returned to their forces. Only Alwerich remained behind. “My friend, don’t put yourself too far into the firing line,” he warned. “Think of what you stand to lose. Here. Something every real commander ought to have.” He handed Nuramon a leather object, a tube sealed at both ends with glass.

“What is it?” he asked the dwarf.

“A telescope,” Alwerich replied. “You have to hold it up to your eye.” The dwarf pointed to the end that was closed with a smaller disk of glass.

Nuramon did what Alwerich said and was amazed. Through the tube in his hand, he could see things that were far away as if they were very close. He saw the dragon banner of the dwarves right in front of him. When Nuramon lowered the tube, he had to blink. “Why haven’t we elves ever come up with something like this?”

“Because it’s so hard for you to admit that even your fine senses have their limits,” Alwerich replied with a smile as he turned to leave. “Look after your hide.”

“Thank you, Alwerich. And take care of your own.”

Alwerich went after his king. His face showed the concern he felt for his friend.

“Let me take a look,” Mandred demanded, and Nuramon handed him the tube.

While Mandred was busy with the telescope, Nuramon sent Lumnuon back to his clan. They were to assemble on the left flank.

Apart from Mandred, only Nomja still stood with him.

“That was a good war council,” Nomja said. “Your fears are unfounded. You are a good leader . . . Before you came, many here were afraid.”

“The dwarves certainly had no fear, and the Firnstayners don’t know what the word means.”

“Believe me, my Fjordlanders know fear,” said Mandred now, and his voice was bitter. “But we will fight. My men know that if we lose today, then there won’t be anywhere else to run to. They will win, or die. Your plan is good, Nuramon, and I’m sure your resolve left its mark on the other commanders.”

“You probably mean my ignorance,” the elf replied.

Mandred grinned, but Nomja shook her head. “Whatever it was, the commanders will take your confidence back with them to their own troops.”

“Do you think we can win this battle?” he asked her quietly.

Nomja looked over at the dwarves. “Wengalf seems very confident. And I have the feeling he’ll have a few more surprises under his dragon shell.”

Mandred handed Nuramon the telescope. “That thing is really a marvel. Could you maybe ask your dwarf friends if they’ve got another one? That would be perfect for spotting game.”

Nuramon laughed. “When the battle is over, I’ll ask Wengalf.”

“Good enough, my friend.” Mandred held his hand out to Nuramon.

Nuramon grasped his forearm. The jarl’s hold was firm. “Mandred, I know you Firnstayners are pigheaded, but don’t put yourself too far into the firing line. We only have to hold them back long enough. Then everything is won.”

“I’m not going to do anything stupid. Just make sure you watch your own back. Since the fight with the Devanthar, I owe you a life, and out on the right flank, I’m too far away to come and help you.”

Nuramon smiled. “If your Luth is on our side, then I’ll meet you in the middle of the enemy. Then you can save my neck.”

“It’s a deal,” said Mandred. He climbed onto the back of his mare and rode away.

Nuramon followed him with his eyes as he trotted off. The jarl only had this one life. At least, people said that humans were never reborn. Nuramon was worried about his friend and feared his death as much as he feared his own. He did not know if Mandred would accompany them to the Other World, but he would not be surprised if the jarl accepted the queen’s offer and stayed in Albenmark among his own people.

“Come, Nuramon,” said Nomja. “Our troops are waiting.”

Together, they went to where their horses stood. Nuramon was about to mount Felbion when he saw his bow hanging on the saddle. Previously, he had watched how the archers used their bows. The elven soldiers had strung their bows with new bowstrings, as if the string were the life and the bow itself the immortal soul. They took care to repeat the ritual and take a new string before every battle, in the way that each new life stretched across the one soul. But for Nuramon, it was different. His life and his soul were now one, because he remembered everything that had happened. And his bow and its bowstring were like a signpost that had shown him which way he had to go. But now they had played their role. Nuramon thought for a moment, then came to a decision. He took the bow from where it hung on the saddle and went to Nomja. She was already in her saddle. “Here, Nomja. I would like to give you this.”

“What?” She looked at him in astonishment. “Why?”

“For what you did during the sea battle . . . Besides, the best archer should be the one to carry this bow.”

She took the bow from him only hesitantly. “I would be a fool to turn down such a gift. Thank you.”

Nuramon climbed onto Felbion, and he and Nomja rode side by side to the left flank. The riders of his clan were waiting there for him. Each was armed with a short sword and a long sword. The Alvemer riders had positioned themselves on the right of Nuramon’s people. They carried short lances and were also armed with long swords. Nomja stayed beside Nuramon and approached them from the left, staying at one side of her small cavalry. Nuramon could see the wonder on their faces when they saw the bow she was carrying. They had short bows, which were easier to use from horseback, and swords for close-quarters fighting
.

The waiting seemed to go on and on. At irregular intervals, messengers came to Nuramon and reported that at the Shalyn Falah and in other places, no fighting had yet taken place. Then finally word came that the enemy would soon appear over the hills. Nuramon’s heart was beating hard. Was he afraid? Did he fear that the sheer numbers of their enemy would crush them and that his little plan would fail miserably?

Then he saw the white banners rising above the ridges. He did not have to look through Alwerich’s telescope to know that the dark patch in the center of their standard was the black tree of the Tjured.

The first of the enemy came into view. They appeared along the entire length of the chain of hills and streamed slowly down the other side. Row upon row of soldiers followed them.

Nuramon took the telescope and peered through it. At first, all he saw was silver and gold, but then he recognized the soldiers. It was said that most of their enemies came from the wilds of Drusna. Their armor was forged completely of metal and made their shoulders look broad. Their helmets gleamed silvery in the sunlight. But the gold Nuramon saw was their faces, for they were wearing masks. Nuramon gasped in shock at the sight. The masks showed the face of Guillaume, which instantly recalled Noroelle to his mind. Nuramon swung the telescope to the left and right, and wherever he looked, he saw the face of the woman he loved.

More and more soldiers came marching over the line of hills. The first row had already reached the bottom of the valley. From the left flank rode the enemy cavalry, re-forming in front of the infantry. Their faces, too, were hidden by golden masks. Nuramon felt almost breathless. Cavalryman or foot soldier, any enemy he faced would be wearing the face of Noroelle. And now he had to watch as their enemy assembled in front of the hills and prepared their attack. What an army. The horsemen alone would have been a worthy adversary.

Slowly, the enemy troops advanced, and Nuramon realized that the elves around him were growing restless. Nomja leaned over to him. “We have never faced this many humans before.”

“But we have a decisive advantage,” Nuramon replied. “For us, this is the last fight of all. We will sacrifice everything if we have to. But for them, this battle is just one of many. They think that if they do not win today, then they will have other opportunities in the future. They are in for a surprise. And do not underestimate the dwarves.”

Nomja nodded and said nothing.

In the meantime, the enemy had advanced to within perhaps eight hundred paces, and there they stopped. Between the gorge and the forest there now stood a sea of soldiers, and it was a matter of moments before the tide came rushing at them.

The enemy cavalry was already moving again. At first, they trotted slowly, but then they came faster and faster until they were in a flat gallop and advancing across a wide front. There were more than a dozen rows of them, and they carried their lances high. The earth shuddered beneath their horses’ hooves.

“Be ready,” Nomja called to her soldiers. Her archers and riders strung arrows on their new bowstrings. “We fire on your command,” she said to Nuramon and raised her hand. Immediately, the archers took aim.

The riders were still around two hundred paces away when Nuramon sensed Nomja growing restless and watching him from the corner of her eye.

“Fire!” Nuramon shouted.

Nomja swung her hand down, and hundreds of bows clacked, sending their hissing arrows flying. A deadly hail rained onto the enemy cavalry.

Nuramon could not see how things were on Mandred’s side, but directly in front of him, the enemy’s flank collapsed. Horses and riders hit the ground and were either trampled or finished off by more arrows. The survivors tried as best they could to get away from the archers and pushed toward the center of the battlefield, because at least from the dwarves nothing was being fired at them. Some decided that retreat was the better course, which deepened the enemy formation.

Nomja had set an arrow on Nuramon’s old bow and fired. The archers sent wave after wave of arrows against the cavalry, but still the stream of riders kept coming, surging forward so powerfully that Nuramon began to fear for the dwarves.

A glance behind the cavalry showed him that the foot soldiers were following, though they were still some distance back. He drew his long sword and raised it high. “Follow me, my Albenkin! For Albenmark!” he yelled. Then he charged, and his people followed him.

Not much farther and the cavalry would be on top of the dwarves. Nuramon waited for Wengalf’s men to do something. It looked almost as if no army stood there at all, just an enormous platform made of shields, like something thought up by some clever strategist to give his enemies the impression of soldiers where none actually stood. Fifty paces from the dwarves, the Tjured knights lowered their heavy lances. Twenty paces, and they were still riding at full speed, as if nothing could stop their advance. Ten paces. Then it happened. From between the shields of the dwarves, quick as lightning, the partisans shot out. They turned the spear points so that the prongs of the hilt stood horizontally and, with a quick jerk, angled them upward. Across the entire front, the enemy riders hurtled onto the blades. Nuramon saw a few riders actually manage to rein in their horses, but the riders behind them forced them onto the lances. Several horses leaped over the lethal wall and disappeared into the ranks of dwarves. The cavalry as a whole was stopped as if it had charged headlong into a fortress wall. The enemy riders in the rear were jammed among those ahead, unintentionally pushing them on.