An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  Urging his fighters into battle with his cries, Gal dyl was at the forefront of the charge. Reaching full speed, he raised his fist and hurled the Spear of Aonyn. The formidable weapon flew a long distance; emitting a high-pitched whistle before it eventually struck its target. The first victim fell, causing confusion among the enemy ranks... It was the beginning of a long and bloody trail of human corpses; each time the Spear of Aonyn found its mark, it would disappear from its victim’s corpse and reappear in Gal dyl’s hand.

  The clan Avrony’s attackers followed their warlord to the fight in a collective frenzy, galvanised by the incredible power of the holy weapon. None but Gal dyl could wield the long Spear of Aonyn, and each time he launched it at the enemy, another skull would crack, or another torso would be pierced. The first battalion of barbarians had been scattered by Gal dyl’s charge, like a flock of sparrows by an eagle. The clan Avrony’s fighters were masters of woodland warfare. They swiftly struck the head of the barbarian ranks with fatally accurate volleys of arrows and javelins, before charging forth to slay the survivors with a flurry of blades. Buoyed by their success, they pushed forward, without discernible strategy.

  At first, they stayed in a line, as they tried to overwhelm their opponents by circumventing their flanks. The Avrony fighters enclosed the disconcerted barbarians in a circle of arrows. Light arrows and heavy javelins tore into the men; many were soon laying face-down in the mud. Gal dyl’s troops handled their heavy spears with horrific accuracy. The tips of their lances had been forged in Tios Lluin and were covered with magical runes of war. Each time these deadly weapons were thrown, a new victim would fall, some were killed quickly, and others suffered a long and painful death. None of the defenders were adequately protected against such an assault, even those who believed themselves invulnerable behind their thick wooden shields. As the clan Avrony’s units continued to push forward and gain ground, the barbarians began falling back to their camp. A hundred corpses now littered the ground. Many were dying. The wounded groaned, pleading in vain that their conquerors spare them their lives.

  Ka-Bloozayar’s minions contained the fugitives, urging them to fight. Now enveloped by bands of Elves, the surviving barbarians struggled hard in close combat to prevent a complete routing of their army. The barbarian chief had sent instructions to his personal henchmen to protect his rear guard. Despite being exhausted already, the elite warriors managed to rally the barbarian battalions to contain the rush of the Elves. They succeeded in halting the clan Avrony’s momentum for a time.

  But soon the voice of Dyoren the Lonely Seeker was heard in the heart of the battle. His war ode was chanted by all Llewenti fighters, who were in dire need of a second push. The sword of Dyoren, Rymsing, swirled through the air, steamrollering men. The frail, solitary bard weaved his legendary sword with all the fantastical power of an ancient clan warlord. All the clan Avrony’s fighters who heard his chant above the uproar of the battlefield soon regained courage. Seeing that the Blade of the West was paving the way, they understood that their survival depended upon the success of this initial charge. They summoned all their remaining strength and returned to the battle.

  The Elves of Mentollà had first seen the fire to the rear flank of the barbarian army as a distant, flickering glow. They heard the sentinels’ cries without suspecting anything other than an isolated skirmish, probably provoked by the last-ditch attempts of the wild Elves. They expected the fortress to be overrun at any moment, given the heavy casualties they had suffered.

  When the defenders were alerted to the clan Avrony’s attack, their sentries, with a gleam of incredulity in their eyes, brought reports that more than five hundred Llewenti were attacking the human army. Many other Elvin horns were blowing from the west, from the depths of the forest, announcing the arrival of additional reinforcements. They were overwhelmed with relief. They knew that the westward access to the forest was of critical importance to the Dragon Warrior’s army and its supply lines. Their evil leader could not afford to be cut off from his troops that were based beyond the path of the Hadon. His battalions had suffered greatly from their multiple assaults on Mentollà; they were not in a position to fight this new army. Ka-Bloozayar needed to retreat. The castaways, elated with renewed hope, suddenly expected him to withdraw his troops at any moment.

  *

  There was then a great noise in the courtyard, where all fighting had ceased since the attack of the Llewenti army. Roquendagor made one of his impulsive decisions that characterised his genius so well. The fire of anger burned within him; the knight was thinking no more of his own mental anguish or the regrets gnawing at his heart. He was now carried only by immeasurable rage.

  “Guards of the Unicorn, will you follow me?” he yelled.

  “WAAAARRRRR!” his remaining loyal followers replied unanimously.

  “Then throw open the doors! We charge!” roared Roquendagor. “Sword!” the knight shouted as he stormed towards the gate.

  Maetor had expected this request, and immediately handed Roquendagor a two-handed sword as he was procuring another for himself. Though there was nothing unique about the blade, its size was impressive and, when Roquendagor seized it with a single hand, his fighters could not help but look upon their commander with awe. This very heavy weapon, which weighed at least ten pounds, required a considerable amount of strength to wield at all. Though it lacked speed, its reach and the power of its blows made it a devastating weapon.

  Roquendagor was followed by a full unit of his guards: heavily armed but without emblem or standard. The remains of the gates were burst open in a crash. They rushed out, screaming their war cry. The unit rushed onto the main path, which was littered with dozens of human corpses. The guards of the Unicorn formed a large, compact square. Roquendagor and Maetor, following a highly disciplined routine, positioned themselves with their great swords at each corner, so as to stop any potential enemy from breaking into the square. Curwë joined them, safely positioned at the centre of the formation.

  The squad had no difficulty in driving the last of the barbarians off of the enclosure’s edge. All men were now disbanding, focussed only on the absolute need to flee since the horns of their army began to sound the retreat.

  Roquendagor beheaded a barbarian chieftain who was trying to gather his warriors to block the path. All fled at the sight of his wrath. Three hundred yards down the hill, the guards of the Unicorn regrouped at the edge of the forest. Curwë was singing the Lewin song of war as they formed a compact squad, protected from projectiles by a wall of long shields. Benefitting from the seaward-facing slope, they charged into the woods at full speed. Sweeping aside all that lay in their path, the unit soon found itself at the heart of the barbarian camp, where there was so much confusion that no one had taken care to organise the defence of the eastern front. The bloody melee began between Unicorn guards and barbarian warriors. Meanwhile the two Hawenti leaders regrouped.

  “Move on, we move on!” urged Roquendagor.

  “The barbarian command has turned its attention to the southern front, where the fight rages against the Llewenti units,” replied Maetor.

  “The Dragon Warrior must be surprised by this sudden reversal of fortune. He will not be able to withdraw and admit defeat. We must use this opportunity,” insisted Roquendagor before continuing, with relish, “Perhaps he will be left behind, cut off from his guards.”

  The two saw that the waves of the clan Avrony’s assaults were being contained by the efforts of Ka-Bloozayar best warriors. Elvin horns continued to resonate in the depths of the forest to the west, but no reinforcements had yet surged to support the efforts of the first attackers. They realised that less than five hundred Elves were trying to push back an army that numbered in the thousands who was about to abandon victory.

  “Move on, we move on!” Roquendagor shouted again in anguish, as he realised that command of the Llewenti clans had set a trap for the enemy.

  This assault would be decisive. Its success was c
rucial. He started to run, towards the heart of the barbarian camp, madly yelling,

  “Roq Laorn! Roq Laorn! Form ranks! Now is the time to inflict the final blow! Form ranks! Roq Laorn! Roq Laorn!”

  Roquendagor’s intuition soon proved well-founded. A few yards away, barbarian horns sounded the retreat. It was as though a dam had broken, and that the long river of the barbarian army was streaming away, in a chaotic flow, towards an invisible waterfall.

  Ka-Bloozayar, still escorted by a few faithful soldiers, approached his throne of command. Storming through the labyrinth of the camp’s tents, his small retinue came across the Unicorn guards.

  Roquendagor immediately recognized the dragon armour and red mask.

  “Kill the Dragon Warrior! Kill the Dragon Warrior!” Roquendagor cried his heart full of hatred. Raising his sword with both hands, he rushed forwards, followed by his guards.

  Two barbarians attempted to intervene and were quickly struck down. Their sacrifice gave Ka-Bloozayar just enough time to rid himself of his cumbersome cloak and draw his sword out of his scabbard.

  Roquendagor was already upon him.

  The barbarian leader managed to counter a flood of heavy, murderous blows that Roquendagor inflicted on him. The last stroke of the frenzy was so powerful that it knocked his long shield out of his hands, landing far away from him. Ka-Bloozayar was now isolated from the last of his defenders, who could no longer be of any help to him, struggling as they were under the might of Maetor and the Unicorn guards.

  Ka-Bloozayar found it difficult to breathe. Desperate, the Dragon Warrior lashed out at Roquendagor with all the fury of a wild beast. The blows of his sword, more incisive and faster than his opponent’s, found their mark several times. His Dragon-skin armour protected him just as well as the full Elvin plate of his opponent, but it also allowed him to move around with agility. He could have fled. But, unexpectedly, a barbarian arrow flew into the back of Roquendagor, piercing a gap between the layers of his plate mail. It caused a severe wound. The tall Elf screamed out in pain and stumbled forward. The barbarian archer did not get the chance to display his expertise again: one of Curwë’s crossbow bolts had pierced his temple, cracking his skull.

  Ka-Bloozayar hesitated for a split second, and then ran towards the knight in the hope of striking a fatal blow.

  At this point, Maetor intervened. Throwing his sword at his previous opponent’s face, he rushed to block the barbarian chief’s attack. They collided as the chief’s sword was in the air, and Maetor, who had escaped his enemy’s blade, fell to the ground, losing several parts of his plate mail armour. Now unarmed, he quickly rolled to one side to seize a large shield that had been abandoned on the battlefield. Raising it above his head, Maetor parried the first assault from Ka-Bloozayar. Other formidable blows were successfully repelled, and the commander of the Unicorn guards started to regain ground. An expert handler of the Hawenti shield, he used its sharp edges to attack. The shield’s design made it a weapon that could pierce the enemy as surely as any blade.

  Faced with such fury, Ka-Bloozayar began to retreat. But the Dragon Warrior was a deadly fighter, and he finally saw an opening in his opponent’s defences. He swung at the High Elf, using all his strength, in one powerful blow. His blade slashed between the plates of Maetor’s armour, cutting through chain mail and tearing through flesh. Maetor’s attacks ceased as blood spurted from his torso. The commander of the Unicorn Guard retreated, leaning on a tree trunk, desperate for support.

  Meanwhile, Roquendagor had managed to recover. He straightened to his full height. The pain he endured seemed only to increase his strength. He mercilessly charged at the barbarian chief. The first strokes were parried with great difficulty. Those that followed broke the sword of Ka-Bloozayar. The final blow severed his leg at the thigh, bringing him to the ground. Roquendagor cut the straps of the barbarian chief’s mask and pulled it off. Victorious, he brandished his trophy above Ka-Bloozayar, whose eyes were glowing with terror. Roquendagor uttered a muffled roar and raised his two-handed sword. He brought the long blade down.

  The barbarian chief was beheaded.

  Roquendagor threw his sword away. Though the air was still thick with deadly flying arrows, the tall knight, impervious to the battle that raged all around him, screamed out, possessed by fury, his hands held up towards the sky.

  “Is this all? Is this really all I must face?”

  Roquendagor slowly turned back and retraced his path towards the fortress. He did not take any further interest in the fight; he was simply walking away from the battlefield, an arrow still sticking out of his back.

  The severely wounded Maetor noticed his lord’s movement. Summoning the last of his strength, he ordered his troops to retreat.

  “Let us withdraw,” he bellowed. “We take our dead and our wounded with us!”

  “Form ranks! Form ranks!”

  “Protect our Lord!”

  Only a dozen Unicorn guards were still able-bodied; though they were completely exhausted, they helped their many wounded, and carried their dead back to the fortress. They adopted a defensive line, circling around their lord. Slowly, they walked backwards, climbing the slope back to the gate.

  None noticed a lone Elf, soaking wet, emerge from the water and stumble up onto the beach, for their view of the creek was obstructed by the remnants of the barbarians’ siege engine.

  It was an Irawenti, haggard and exhausted, almost naked, rising from the emerald waters of Mentollà’s creek like a spirit from the ocean depths.

  Meanwhile, still standing tall and upright, with his purple helm now underneath his arm, the fiery Maetor coordinated the retreat of his unit, protecting his lord and liege. Without a single complaint, nor any display of pain, he managed to lead his surviving fighters back to the protection of Mentollà’s walls. Maetor tried to give one final instruction, but this proved to be one effort too many.

  “Clo…Cl…C…the gates!”

  Maetor fell, heavily, face-first onto the ground. The nearest guard rushed to assist him. But, after a few moments, he announced, incredulous.

  “My Lord, our commander is dead. Maetor is dead.”

  *

  Curwë was not among those who had safely returned to Mentollà. In the midst of all the hazardous fighting in the woods, he had been pushed beyond the main battlefield and isolated from the Unicorn guards. Indeed, he was not even aware that his companions were withdrawing behind the fortress walls. As he tried to find them, a dramatic scene caught his attention for a moment.

  Deep in the woods, beyond the reach of his crossbow, he could see a small number of Llewenti fighters being cornered by a group of barbarian warriors, who were commanded by shamans of the Cult of the Dragons. A magnificent voice sang out above the cries of the melee, and a vivid shining glaive was engaged in a deadly dance, barely avoiding inevitable defeat. The vision did not last, the gleaming blade fell, and the song ceased amid war cries.

  Struck by what he witnessed, Curwë progressed into the woods as other Llewenti units reached the bloody battlefield. The army of Llymar were organised haphazardly, each group followed its captain, and each of them determined his own course of action separately from his warlord. Such confusion led to overlapping lines of battle, with individual fighters advancing and withdrawing like leaves in a storm. Whenever the barbarians turned to face the Elves’ charge, the Llewenti would slip away into the trees, circling back around their foes to attack them from a different side. Many men had been slaughtered, and their battalions variously moved forwards and backwards as their running battle within the woods continued. It was chaos.

  Drawn deeper into the enemy’s camp by his vision, Curwë remained concealed from his enemies’ view. The battle had moved further west when he jumped out of a trench and walked toward the barbarian chief’s tent. It was no longer being guarded.

  He rushed inside.

  A long table was littered with bottles and glasses. At the end of the table, a man was bending down, his hea
d bowed. He was busy stuffing a bag full of precious items. But the noise of Curwë’s entrance made him stand up straight and turn around. He stared at the intruder with hatred. The man had a strange head: big, tanned and hairy, like that of a bear. His broad face seemed etched in sin.

  When he saw the newcomer, he began to scream. His heavy long sword sprang from its scabbard. But Curwë, who was much faster, jumped on him and seized hold of his arms. Both of them rolled under the table. Beast-like Curwë grabbed the throat of his prey and maintained his hold until the man’s final spasms had ceased. The fight ended in one last agonizing scream.

  Curwë rose. He seized the barbarian’s bag and put away his own bloodied sword. But a glistening object deep within the bag caught his eye. The bard removed other precious objects and discovered a beautiful broad sword, the same one he had glimpsed through the woods, adorned with emeralds. Paralyzed by the purity of the shining blade, for some time his gaze lingered on the extraordinary masterpiece in his hands, which he knew must have remained unchanged over the course of many years.

  “Cil, Cim, Cir!” he exclaimed aloud, with an incredulity more typical of Nelwiri. “I have never beheld such a weapon. It’s a sword like those mentioned in the book Vyrka gave to me. A deity must have forged it.”

  He remained there for a long while, hypnotized by the blade’s power.

  But the cries and clattering of the combat outside brought him back to reality. Seized again by the rage of battle, he rushed outside in search of his companions, with new sword in hand. But the fight had moved away, and Curwë was now alone. Aware of the danger that this isolation posed, he quickly slipped back into a trench and retraced his steps, seeking to flee the combat zone. He was now desperate to return to Mentollà and protect his precious plunder.