by Doug Niles
“The island remains quiet,” she informed him. “Still, don’t abandon caution. We’ve seen signs of many draconians, and I still don’t like the way that they’ve stayed away from their villages.”
“You know we’ll be careful … and thanks for your report,” Porthios replied. “Do you still think the two clearings are good places to land?”
“Yes, if you want to risk dividing your force,” she said cautiously. Almost as an afterthought, she reached into a pouch at her waist and drew out a small packet of woven grass. “Here—a greenmask. It’s a gift from the Kirath. Wear it when you go into battle, and it will offer some protection from noxious gases, smoke, and the like.”
“You still suspect there might be green dragons?” he asked.
She shrugged. “We haven’t seen any sign of them, but it’s like Samar said, this seems like a perfect place for them.”
“I’m afraid of the same thing,” he admitted. “I appreciate the gift.”
“My scouts will be on the island. We’ll make contact later, try to keep you posted on the enemy’s movements.”
“Thanks. Be careful.”
Minutes later, on the bow of the lead boat, Porthios met with Tarqualan, who commanded the company of Qualinesti flyers, and the two Silvanesti division commanders, the scarred veteran, Bandial, and the aristocratic noble, Cantal-Silaster. Also present were several of the nature priests of House Woodshaper, who would be charged with beginning the long, slow healing process of the woodland, and two of the white-robed elven wizards who would be entrusted to lending magical might to the Silvanesti ground forces.
“We’ll time the landings so that both divisions come ashore simultaneously,” Porthios clarified. “The Qualinesti archers will fly overhead, giving protection against attack from the air and keeping watch for any reaction on the ground. I want both camps established by nightfall, completed with palisades.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult,” Bandial said, with a look at the sun, which had not even reached its zenith as yet. “Can we move out as soon as we have a wall up?”
Porthios shook his head. “I want to keep a sense of coordination between the divisions. Even if one of you gets the camp established ahead of time, you’re to wait within the palisade. I’ll be flying back and forth and will put together orders for an attack with the dawn.”
“I thought you said you only expected a few draconians,” Bandial countered, adjusting the eye patch that he wore proudly. “Why all the caution?”
With a sigh, the marshal tried to make sense of his answer. “It’s just a feeling I have. We could have some trouble with this one. True, Aleaha looked the place over and didn’t see any sign of dragons or ogres, and not many draconians, at that. Maybe it was their villages. Too many of them looked abandoned, as if perhaps they still lived there but were hiding out in the woods.”
“If the denizens of nightmare are there, we’ll find them,” Cantal-Silaster promised. “You know that, my lord marshal.”
Porthios looked at these elves with real affection. “I do know that, my brave men and women. And it is my sincere wish that every elf with us survives this campaign to make it back home again. But these woods are thick, even for Silvanesti forests. It will be hard to see what’s happening from the air, and in the event of a surprise, I want all forces ready to defend themselves.”
“Understood, sir,” agreed Bandial cheerfully. “Now, good luck to you!”
“And to you all!”
Stallyar and another griffon came to rest on the boat’s upper deck, and Porthios and Tarqualan took to their saddles. The great, winged creatures leaped into the air, and the prince of elvenkind, Speaker of the Sun, and Military Governor of Silvanesti once more made ready to lead his troops into battle.
Aerensianic watched the elven deployment with keen interest. The green dragon was coiled through the limbs of three massive trees, just below the upper canopy of tattered leaves, the barrier that would probably have masked his supple green body from the prying eyes of any of the elven scouts on their cursed griffons. However, Aeren was not relying on mere camouflage for protection. As he had when the elven scouts had first scoured this island, he was concealing himself behind a spell of invisibility.
If his features could have been seen, they would have been creased by an obvious frown as he watched the elven riverboats divide into two separate flotillas. One group of the long, flat craft glided to the dragon’s right, while the other floated toward the shore not far from the dragon’s concealed vantage.
The green dragon was remembering his second meeting with the Silvanesti traitor, the elf who hated this Porthios so much that he had bargained his own army—and a portion of his ancestral homeland—away so that this bold marshal might be killed. The elf’s information had been useful and accurate, so far as it went. The elven army appeared on the river exactly on the day the general had predicted. The mob of creatures lurking in the woods below—ogres, goblins, and draconians, all held together under the tenuous reins of Aerensianic’s lordship—was emplaced, ready to strike at the landing forces. They, too, had hidden from the scouts, ignoring their almost irresistible compulsion to attack early.
But the traitor had said nothing about a landing in two places. Secure in the knowledge that the elves were too far away to smell him, Aeren snorted a cloud of deadly chlorine gas, irritated with this new development. Unlike the disciplined elven army, the unruly creatures who had answered the green dragon’s call to arms were far too disorganized to perform any complicated offensive maneuvers. He would have to leave them where they were, letting the battle develop as it would.
Aeren could make out the form of the elven marshal, mounted upon his silver-feathered griffon, as the commander flew back and forth between the two portions of his army. The green dragon took careful note of the elf, resolving that, when the battle began, he would seek out that particular enemy and give him the honor of a hero’s death. Unfortunately, this meant that the green dragon would not be there to help with the main attack. Instead, Aerensianic would have to rely upon a simple plan and on the natural aggressiveness of his troops.
Yet there were other things, too, about the impending fight that would work in his favor. The traitor had informed him that elven tactics had evolved into a predictable approach to a new campaign. Porthios would land his force and quickly build a fortified wall around it. Once sheltered behind that palisade, the elves would be virtually unassailable.
But before then, they would be vulnerable. This was the same tactic the marshal had developed over long experience during the cleansing of Silvanesti. On occasion, Aeren had learned, the elves had been attacked by resentful denizens of the nightmare before they had a chance to complete their defenses. In those cases, the elves had survived by a rapid withdrawal, with a sudden return and a construction of their fort in a new place.
None of those attacks had been landed on a hostile shore, however, and it was this fact that gave Aeren hope. The current would press the boats hard against the riverbank, making any withdrawal exceptionally difficult. Instead, the invading army would be forced to fight where it was, ill-prepared and unfortified. And they would have no idea that a major force was lurking in these woods, alerted to the elven approach and prepared to launch a deadly ambush.
Watching as he tried to suppress his natural impatience, Aeren saw the elven boats pull up to shore, their blunt prows driving into the muddy bank, hull to hull across a breadth of three or four hundred paces. The invading warriors leaped onto the ground and quickly spread out, axes ringing into tree trunks within a minute after the first troops had landed. The second flotilla, off to the right, had drifted out of sight behind the curve of the island’s shore. The green dragon suspected that those boats hadn’t reach shore yet, so he refrained from making any move, giving any sign of the ambushing force lurking in the shelter of the woods. He wanted to make sure the other force had landed, their boats grounded in soft muck so they would be unable to come to the aid of their bel
eaguered comrades.
But soon it would be time to attack.
Very, very soon.
Porthios scanned the broad shore of the island, trying to reassure himself that things were developing according to plan. He saw that the First Division, in the west, was already drawing up to shore. The Second Division was still a mile or more from its designated landing zone but was closing fast, borne by the current and by the diligent efforts of the elven polers.
Stallyar banked along the shore, flying low and parallel to the riverbank. The marshal wore the greenmask as a precaution and was pleased to find that he could breathe quite easily through the gauzy material. Still, he was nervous and edgy. He squinted into the dank vegetation, trying to reassure himself that there could be no real threat there. After all, he and Samar had thoroughly scouted the island. A few hundred, even a thousand or more, draconians would be no match for either one of his divisions, even supposing that the disorganized monsters could somehow muster the coordination to attack together. It was far more likely that individual bands of the creatures would try to offer what resistance they could and would be slaughtered by the elven phalanxes. Porthios even allowed himself to hope that this might be a relatively bloodless campaign for his own troops. The elves had skilled healers, and all but the most grievous of wounds could be magically healed so long as there weren’t too many injured all at the same time.
The First Division was well on the way toward clearing a swath of shore. Already axemen were working on sharpening the trunks of felled trees, while the cutters worked their way farther and farther inland. Half his griffon-mounted Qualinesti, under the command of Tarqualan, soared in circles over the troops, keeping alert eyes on the woodland, with arrows ready to shoot if any target presented itself. Unfortunately, Porthios knew that the dense undergrowth created little chance of seeing a target that didn’t want to be seen.
With a mild tug on the reins, Porthios pulled Stallyar around, then urged the griffon to hurry as they flew toward the boats of the Second Division. Coming around the bend at the northern point of the island, he saw that those boats were finally drawing near to shore. A hundred griffons wheeled overhead, archers studying the bank where the vessels would make their landing.
Porthios joined these fliers, allowing Stallyar’s powerful wings to stretch into an easy glide. The boats, driven by strong pushes on the poles, churned up little wakes of white water, then nudged firmly into the soft muck of the banks. In another minute, the elves of the Second Division were swarming ashore, attacking the corrupted trees with as much vigor as had their comrades two miles away along the shore of the island.
The thin notes of a trumpet trailed through the wind, so faint that at first Porthios thought he must have imagined it. But then the call was repeated, the distinctive, ascending three-note cry that meant only one thing: We are being attacked!
Even before Porthios could pull on the reins, Stallyar banked and dived, picking up speed as he carried the marshal toward the sound of the alarm. They swept just above the trees, cutting over the island rather than taking the longer route over the water.
It was this detour that undoubtedly saved his life.
As the griffon flew at a frantic speed, Porthios had eyes only for the elven troops of the First Division. The first thing he noticed was that the griffons and their archers, who had been circling over their comrades on the ground, were now diving toward the woods. Arrows were showering down into the trees, clear enough proof that his soldiers were being attacked.
The second thing to catch his attention was a writhing, shimmering shape twisting through the treetops directly below. His mind registered the identification—this was a dragon, and a big one.
The blast of poisonous gas erupted upward from widespread jaws, a green cloud boiling and churning into the air. The seething mist swirled just beyond Stallyar’s right wing, and Porthios saw that the dragon had tilted its sinuous neck all the way over its back to spew its lethal breath at the flying elf. The attack was awkward, and that enabled the griffon to dive away from the deadly cloud. Stallyar cawed angrily as the tendrils of mist burned his eyes, while Porthios blinked and gagged, grateful for the protection of the mask.
Even as branches lashed his face while Stallyar ducked below the top layer of the forest, Porthios was thinking about that attack. The dragon had been invisible—he had seen the effects of the spell fade as the monster burst into motion—and it had been waiting for him. If he had been flying over the river, along the bank, as he had been since the first boats landed, he would inevitably have glided directly into his death.
The griffon’s foreclaws, powerful eagle talons, seized a limb and pulled, the leonine rear legs pushing off the same branch to catapult the creature back into the skies. Porthios risked a glance and saw that the dragon, a massive green wyrm, was disentangling itself from the treetops. Enormous wings beat, crushing branches and leaves, but the monster’s own size worked against it.
In moments, the marshal was flying over the encampment, and Porthios was appalled to see the chaos reigning below. More than a thousand winged humanoids, many bearing hooked swords, while others attacked with their talons and crushing jaws, had swarmed from the shelter of the woods to strike the elven work parties. His first glance showed at least a hundred torn, bleeding bodies lying in the wake of the initial attackers, while more of the axemen were falling back to the boats.
From the flanks of the forest, a great, lumbering line of creatures emerged. These were ogres, bashing with huge clubs, some wielding long spears, others carrying sticks like tree trunks as they struck the unprepared elves on the right and the left. Massive feet thudded across the ground as growls rose thickly over the field. The first elves to meet this charge were instantly smashed down, crushed lifeless beneath the brutal onslaught.
The veteran warriors of the First Division were making a valiant effort to handle the shock. Already they had a semblance of a line formed, a barrier of silvery swords that blocked the draconians’ advance and forced the savage creatures to hit their enemies head-on. In line, each elf relied on the presence of his comrades to right and left, and there were no warriors on Krynn more skilled with the long sword than a veteran elf.
But the problem with the line came from its flanks. The ogres rolled against both right and left sides, and without supporting formations to screen, the tenuous line was inevitably being chewed away. One after another, elves turned from the frontal attack to face the threat from the flank, only to perish beneath the weight of the monstrous, club-wielding humanoids.
Porthios gave a quick glance behind him. The green dragon had broken from the trees and was winging after him, but it was slow to accelerate and somewhat clumsy in the cramped quarters. Still, it seemed to pursue him with singular, deadly purpose The elf reckoned that he had about a minute to issue orders and take action before he would once more have to flee for his life. He pulled back on the reins and Stallyar climbed, winging desperately toward the Qualinesti on their griffons. These elves were busy shooting arrows into the attackers, but their efforts were uncoordinated. Many shot at the draconians, while a few directed their lethal missiles at the ogres on the right and left flanks.
Porthios saw Tarqualan trying to make order of the chaos.
“There! Concentrate your fire on the near flank!” shouted the marshal. “We’ve got to stop the ogres or the whole division is lost!”
“Yes, lord!” shouted the captain, immediately turning to signal his disorganized flying troops.
Again the marshal stole a glance, and he saw the green dragon bearing down. The yellow eyes were unblinking, the slitted pupils fixed unerringly on him. With an anguished look down at the battle, Porthios knew that he was needed down there. His leadership, and his sword, might give some hope of stabilizing that brave but crumbling line. Yet there was no mistaking the serpent’s purposeful pursuit, and if he flew down to join his army, the commander knew that the dragon would bring its indiscriminate attack down there as well
.
Instead, Porthios pulled the reins to the left. Stallyar, with a momentary squawk of confused protest, obeyed, driving his powerful wings through the air, veering away from the battle and the river, carrying his master over the dank forest of the island. Roaring in fury, the dragon followed, cutting the angle on the inside of Porthios’s turn, closing the distance between hunter and quarry as the massive monster built up more and more speed. Wind scoured the elven marshal’s face and stung tears from his eyes as he laid his head flat along the griffon’s powerful neck.
The elf knew he would never outdistance the dragon in straight, level flight, but he had to put some distance between the serpent and the desperate battle. He looked over his shoulder, fighting off the inevitable quiver of dragonawe as he saw that the beast was closing rapidly.
“There! Dive!” shouted Porthios, pointing to a gap between a couple of tall, leafless tree trunks.
Stallyar responded instantly, tucking his wings, veering through a turn that would have pulled the elf out of the saddle if he had not been firmly seated. Again branches lashed his skin, and Porthios buried his face more firmly in the soft feathers of the griffon’s neck. He felt them drop swiftly through the brittle limbs of the dead tree, plunging out of the sky with precipitous haste.
They landed with a thud hard enough to knock the wind out of the rider, but the griffon, unfazed, used the ground to pounce directly sideways. Scampering catlike through a maze of thick, dead limbs, the creature raced through an arc that carried them back to the north. Porthios hung on with desperation, knowing his only chance for survival rested with the griffon’s quickness and natural instincts for escape.
With a bellow of rage, the dragon dropped into the trees. Massive trunks snapped like twigs, including a forest giant that crashed to the ground directly before Stallyar. Without hesitation, the griffon leapt the barrier, then used the branches and his powerful wings to lift mount and rider back into the sky.