An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  Luwir admired the way the High Elves were organised. Each of the fifty Unicorn guards had proven his worth. They had fought as part of the same unit for decades, if not centuries. They favoured long spears, which required coordination and discipline to wield. Each member always knew what his companions were thinking; the whole unit would fight as a unique body. Each fighter played his part: either providing protection to his fellows or opening the defensive lines of their enemies. Turning to Maetor, Luwir said.

  “The two units you command, with their hard-won experience and utmost courage in battle, will give my archers much heart, instilling confidence among our ranks.

  But will some mere Irawenti sailors be resolved in the midst of battle?

  I cannot tell for, until now, they have only ever faced the perils of the sea.”

  “Rest assured that the Unicorn guards will hold the gate and take the worst of what the enemy has to throw at us,” Maetor reassured him. He continued with a note of regret in his voice. “See how, according to the orders of our lord, we have erased the white unicorn from our shields.” He steeled himself before continuing. “Each of the guards maintains his own weapons and armour with a great deal of pride and care. Each is attired in the finest purple robes above his magnificent Elvin plate mail, for this is the colour of our house, and it symbolises our determination to fight to the very end. Purple is red and blue combined: a mix of courage and virtue. This display shall be rightly feared by our foes.”

  “The Unicorn guards’ equipment certainly marks their superiority,” admitted Luwir, appreciatively. “Those strong shields, tall helmets, fine hauberks and, most of all, the long spears would strike fear into the hearts of the bravest enemy.”

  “You shall see, Luwir, how the Unicorn guards will form an impregnable bastion of resistance at the main gate. The doors of the fortress are our weakest point despite all efforts we made to reinforce them. Therefore, they will be the enemy’s strategic goal. This is where I will stand until the end. Our wall of spears will impale any men brave enough to charge at us. With only a dozen of my guards, I will make it impossible for the barbarians to battle their way into the fortress. They shall behold us standing our ground resolutely, amid scores of their fallen warrior companions.”

  But Maetor was interrupted by a noise coming from the enemy ranks. In a great clatter of arms, the barbarian archers were kneeling down. Men bowed their heads and opened their hands as an offering to their evil Dragon Gods, as they listened to their shamans’ prayers. Many of them took out small amulets from their tunics. Those who held the sanctified treasure soon passed it on to their companions; each man brought it to his lips and kissed it, in the hope of retaining the strength of the dragons.

  A whisper was heard among the troops. Behind the multiple ranks of archers, the tribes’ chief, Ka-Bloozayar, appeared. Seated upon his throne, carried by no less than eight servants, he was dressed in a red cloak the colour of blood. There was no doubt that this man commanded profound respect, for his appearance provoked a great show of devotion. He was an authentic Dragon Warrior, judging by the cut of his armour, which comprised of a full plate mail of rare quality, enhanced with dark engravings. His face was hidden behind a copper mask, a magnificently sculpted work of art in tribute to the power of the mightiest Dragon God, Fyranar the Red. The mask’s dreadful features inspired fear and obedience in all around. Ka-Bloozayar raised his right arm and there followed bustling activity. Men were hurrying around their small, improvised camp, hauling tools, long pieces of oak and works of steel.

  The barbarians began to assemble the multiple pieces of a gigantic trebuchet. Judging by its many constituent parts, the siege engine towered above the pines’ top and weighed many tones. The trebuchet needed nearly a hundred workers to be assembled. The process involved men running inside wheels, themselves twelve feet high, in order to lift the enormous counterweight into the air. This catapult was designed to hurl heavy projectiles at a great distance. The siege engine looked as if it could cause severe damage to the main gates.

  To protect the craftsmen and their great construction as it was built; the barbarian archers advanced and started climbing the steep slope up to the fortress walls.

  “Wuinca!” [73] yelled Luwir.

  The Irawenti archers opened the shutters and raised the bulwarks in a silent readiness. They formed small groups, sheltering behind wooden panels from which they could safely fire their arrows and bolts. In the meantime, others were carefully watching what was being built beyond the ramparts. Pouches filled with water, designed to extinguish any flaming arrows that found their way to the barracks, were brought forward.

  “Taon nari!” [74] Maetor ordered.

  The Unicorn guards immediately placed themselves in front of each weak point of the wall, ready to strike back at any incursion.

  A moment later, projectiles flew in on every side. The attackers were bombarding them with all manner of sharp missiles to cover their approach. Arrows were falling upon Elves who had not taken cover in time but were invariably bouncing off plate mail. The initial ranged attack had been harmless. The response of Mentollà’s archers came hard and fast.

  A continuous line of barbarians walked to the edge of the fortress’ moat, each soldier bearing an armful of branches that they would throw into the waters below. Many fell under Elvin arrows. But, before long, a wide ford of branches had been formed, leading across the moat to the door. This had cost the lives of over a hundred barbarians. The gate was now vulnerable to a barbarian ram. With a loud cry, some of the most powerful human warriors rushed at the door with a pine trunk, whose pike-shaped end crashed into the wood. The first assault was not enough to break through, and the gate remained solid.

  Elvin archers were shooting blindly at the crowd of humans below, however they failed to stop them. More men were already seizing the battle ram again, taking it back to create the distance for another assault. Two new assailants fell but the others, protected by the shields of their companions, proceeded to run screaming at the fortress. They crossed the ford of branches and collided against the door, which cracked from top to bottom. Swinging their powerful weapon back, the barbarians continued to pound at the door, moving the ram slightly with each hit. Each strike caused a little more damage as the doorframe was bent and distorted. Sensing the danger, Luwir and Maetor headed towards the gate near the door that was threatened, encouraging their archers to resist.

  When the two commanders reached the stronghold’s entrance, the panels broke in a deafening noise of splintering wood.

  The destruction of the door did not lessen the determination of the Unicorn Guard, who would rely on their excellent discipline to snatch victory from the barbarians, however brutal and savage their foes may prove. Their formation was only three ranks deep. The barbarian attackers had never before witnessed the Unicorn Guard on the field of battle, and they could not fully comprehend the power that confronted them. The highly trained guards were motionless, and utterly silent. The very air shimmered around them, as if to pay homage to the stoic sentries of an ancient Elvin temple.

  “Puca ecco!” [75] ordered Maetor, his voice deep and warlike.

  The first rank of the Unicorn guards lowered their long spears and thrust forward. They exchanged no words, yet each knew his place instinctively. Without flinching, proving their brave resolve, they raised their shields and soon felt the distinctive crunch of metal cleaving flesh as their powerful weapons pierced the bodies of their enemies. Watching the progress of his unit, the commander of the Unicorn Guard insisted.

  “Puca ecco atta nar!”[76]

  The second rank of High Elves rammed their spears forward; many more barbarians were slain.

  “Etya ecco nelde nar!”[77] Maetor finally instructed to complete the manoeuvre.

  More screams were heard as the third rank of the Unicorn fighters thrust their long spears at the oncoming barbarians.

  There was no fear upon the faces of the High Elves, only calm and ruthles
s determination. The fate of the melee had soon turned: to the favour of the Elvin army.

  When Maetor finally ordered them to retreat, the damage they had caused to the enemy was so great that their nerves of steel had shocked their enemy, horrifying their opponents. Two battalions of men had been destroyed by the fiery intensity of the assault, the fiercest ever seen by the inexperienced human warriors. Any able to stand were fleeing, overcome with dread. Their eyes still blazing from the slaughter, the two units, silent, grim and resolute, withdrew back into Mentollà, carrying their wounded with honour. Their ornate armour, tall helmets and long spears were splattered with the blood of their victims.

  **

  10th day, the Pass of the Hadon

  While on the eastern side of the Arob Tiude there were wild orchards and lush gorges, to the west of the mountain range there was only a desolate, arid plateau of endless brown soil, interspersed by large outcrops of granite. Weaving through this wild territory were dangerous torrents, which surged in foaming cascades as they crashed across the landscape. Only the roar of the water, the cry of the buzzards and the howling of the wolves would ever break the silence. It was through this inhospitable region that the units of the clan Ernaly were now progressing: across vast plains, in the shadows between great mountains, and along the edges of the steepest precipices. They had now been battling through the Arob Tiude range for two days, overcoming narrow paths, steep slopes and treacherous summit passes. Finally, the horizon widened in front of them, and they could see the vast Sognen Tausy woods emerging beyond, stretching from between the Arob Tiude down to the ocean. They could finally see the dense, blooming vegetation to the east of the Arob Tiude foothills. It was the land of the brown bear, the fox and the deer, of thick woods and brimming streams.

  Five hundred fighters of the clan Ernaly marched behind their two dyl. Night had not yet fallen when their units began to take up their positions on the slopes above the Hadon, the Llewenti name for the strategic pass through the mountains: a narrow parade, strewn with rubble, two hundred feet wide and some four hundred yards in length. They set up on the slopes in total silence; this army of scouts was accustomed to approaching its prey undetected. Many of them were surprised to find that this arid gorge, the only path through the Arob Tiude, was not already guarded by the barbarians.

  “So, chance really does favour the bold. Who could have guessed that our units would take control of this strategic pass without shooting a single arrow?” declared Mynar dyl with a certain delight.

  “There were many in Llafal who regarded this part of Curubor’s plan to be madness. Some even declared that we should not risk the survival of an entire army for the sake of one improbable victory. I can still see their faces when you volunteered to lead the clan Ernaly’s army to the Hadon,” Voryn dyl dryly recalled.

  “Indeed, I think some of those faces were relieved...” the warlord of Tios Halabron smiled. “But I did not put myself forward out of pure generosity, or for the sake of glory against the odds. I swore to defend this pass, and to deny the Dragon Warrior’s army any chance of escape, because of the simple fact that the clan Ernaly’s troops are the only Elves capable of succeeding.”

  Thus, the two brothers had condemned their troops to fight beyond the reach and assistance of the rest of the Llymar army. The clan Ernaly now risked being attacked on both sides, by reinforcements from the west, and by the main force should it retreat from the east.

  The next day at dawn, reddish light illuminated the tops of the Arob Tiude peaks, while the valleys remained in shadow. But the morning calm was suddenly disrupted. Barbarian horns resounded from the east. The noise came from a hamlet, abandoned long ago by the wild Elves, which led to the passage of the Hadon.

  An elite unit of the barbarian army, the Jackal Raiders, so named because of the tamed beasts they fought with, was returning from the wild Elves’ territory. Despite the Llewenti’s precautions, word had reached the barbarians that their supply route was cut. Their reaction had been immediate; the Raiders had been sent to secure back control of the road. A shaman of the Three Dragons’ Cult, armed for combat with a heavy mace in hand, rode his warhorse at the head of the three companies, which marched behind him in a haphazard formation. The evil cleric was probably a noble among his people, for he was wearing a copper mask with red dragon features, a privilege reserved for higher-ranking officials of the cult. When he entered the apparently deserted Hadon pass, he raised his formidable mace and the first ranks of his warriors moved off, just as the emerging sunrise lit the whole sky purple. The Jackals Raiders were a strong but light infantry unit, composed of three hundred experienced warriors. They were animal tamers and trained all manner of wild beasts for combat. Sure of their strength, they boldly entered the neck of the Hadon, along the single breach into the mountain range, as one long column.

  Within a few moments, the clan Ernaly’s scouts had warned the other units of the enemy’s movements. The lookouts stationed upstream relayed the alert, using hawks to dispatch instructions to prepare an ambush. All of the clan Ernaly’s fighters were formidable hunters, accustomed to staying hidden for long periods, masters in the art of making themselves invisible on rugged terrain. Sheltered behind rocks and crevices, there was no way to detect their presence above the strategic pass. The two brothers commanding the Elvin army were hidden behind bushes on top of a ridge downstream, towards the end of the route, so as to embrace fully the battlefield.

  Mynar dyl wielded just two javelins, which he could use at short range. He was thus preparing himself to assist Voryn dyl, a formidable expert with the longbow. Voryn dyl could hit a target with accuracy from up to two hundred feet away. Mynar dyl would supply him with flaming arrows during the battle. With their combined efforts, they planned to rain a deluge of iron and fire upon the attackers.

  Soon, the Raiders, cursing and shouting, set their trained jackals loose upon the slopes of the pass. The howling wild beasts tore through the silence as they searched for prey.

  “Let the scavenger dogs come. They will soon have plenty of human meat to feed upon,” Voryn dyl declared raging.

  They now had a direct view of the advancing enemy. One of the barbarian troops had already passed the first Elvin units without any of the jackals detecting their presence. Their sense of smell was being disrupted by animal scents that the Llewenti had taken care to spread overnight. Turning in circles, sniffing frantically in confusion, the beasts looked fatigued, provoking significant concern in their human masters. The second company of men passed, then the third. The barbarians were now almost at the other side of the bottleneck, just in front of the two Ernaly brothers, and almost within reach of Voryn dyl’s arrows.

  The men were completely surrounded by almost twice as many Elves hidden above them, completely unaware of their enemies’ presence. But fear and doubt began to seize them. They stopped.

  “They will give up any idea of progressing further," whispered Mynar dyl, who was waiting impatiently for the perfect moment to call the ambush. The whistle of a javelin through the air stopped Voryn dyl before he could respond. Thirty feet below, a barbarian fell, crying out in a scream of pain.

  Immediately, the battle cry of the clan Ernaly’s fighters roared all around the narrow pass of the Hadon, as if hundreds of hawks were calling out to signal a kill. The sky above the ridge was suddenly covered by a cloud of javelins, spears and arrows. A deluge of Elvin projectiles rained down upon the three barbarian units, trapped in the gorge. Archers were stationed along the entire length of the pass, on both sides, preventing the barbarians from taking any shelter as they tried to retreat. Men, like their jackal pets, fell one after the other, as the roars of the beasts mingled with the last of the human curses, in a vast, gory spectacle of death. If light arrows caused mere injuries to the barbarians, the javelins spared none. The clan Ernaly’s fighters handled those formidable weapons with great skill. They targeted the wounded with no mercy.

  Each new volley of arrows was rippin
g further holes in the barbarian ranks. In the merciless crossfire, barbarians were surging backwards in confusion, abandoning their wounded to the javelin-throwers. The survivors of the first attack could no longer see any way out. They all joined in a desperate attempt to flee. The path was strewn with the corpses of humans and beasts. Jackals sprinted in all directions, seized with terror, attacking their own masters, driven mad by the stench of their blood-stained fur.

  Mynar dyl was by his brother’s side, setting arrowheads alight and handing them over with great speed, so that Voryn dyl’s fire was much faster and deadlier than any other archer. Feeling that victory was close at hand, the warlord of Tios Halabron turned to his loyal brother.

  “They are disbanding. All will perish in this ravine.”

  An evil grin twitched into being upon Voryn dyl’s lips. His eyes shone with unusual light: a reflection of the murderous madness that inhabited him.

  “Let them all die there. War is now upon them.”

  Sixty paces below them, a lone, terrified barbarian had foregone his helmet, spear and shield in a supreme effort to reach the cover of some small trees. Voryn dyl drew back his longbow and released. The arrow pierced the temple of the unfortunate man, who fell immediately before rolling down the slope. His body came crashing onto the rocks at the bottom of the ravine.