by Markus Heitz
200 paces.
The modified älfar formation meant that the elves were caught in crossfire. Because the angle of attack had changed, more of the arrows were hitting home.
Excellent! The breach in the enemy lines widened at the point the rampaging night-mares were stampeding toward, forcing the elves to scatter.
“Nostàroi!” said one of the bodyguards, indicating the far end of the valley. “They’re sending reinforcements!”
The elves’ light cavalry was on the move.
“They are afraid of taking too many casualties in the first wave,” muttered Carmondai. “They want to make a second push to seal their victory.”
There were two elves on each of the horses—they had each taken up a member of the infantry division to get them to the front more swiftly. A good 2,000 were held in reserve at the mouth of the valley.
This is going to get tricky. Carmondai thought quickly about how to counter this new onslaught. If he concentrated firepower on the new wave, he would not be able to continue to reduce the numbers already at the front, and that would have serious consequences for the älfar army.
But there was Caphalor on the left, up on the ridge with the rear-guard soldiers! They had ridden around the valley and worked their way up through difficult terrain in order to attack the elves from the side.
The elf heavy cavalry took more hits from Caphalor’s archers—but it was not holding them up.
“Resist at all costs!” shouted Carmondai, readying his troops for the oncoming storm. “Resist or die!”
At that point, the leader of the advancing cavalry charge did the right thing: fifty paces before reaching the first älf he ordered his weakened unit to swerve to the left to avoid the forest of spears.
The elves were now running parallel to and below the ridge.
That’s going to make it harder for Caphalor’s archers to hit the riders, Carmondai cursed the elf general.
Disaster was on them: the armored cavalry, long lances lowered, broke through the älfar left flank like a battering ram.
With the sound of crashing metal, smashing spears, the whinnying of horses and night-mares and the screams of injured warriors, the noise level was ear-splitting.
It was the sound of war.
“Keep the . . .” Arviû’s joyful voice died away.
His longbow archers had finally been making headway, but then the elves had made a sudden turn and swerved to the left—coming directly at him.
At their speed fifty paces was no distance at all. Before he could give the order to retreat, the elves were charging into their ranks, lances at the ready.
“Short bows! Short bows!” Arviû tossed his precious longbow to one side and grabbed the smaller version, but the elves were too close for him to put enough power behind the shots. He still managed to bring down four of them.
The murderous pressure imposed on the älfar ranks reached Arviû and he was forced backward along with his mount, like a piece of driftwood on a raging torrent. He could not control the direction he was going in, but attempted to keep firing. He took his feet out of the stirrups and pulled his legs clear of the crush.
The elf cavalry was unstoppable and eager to avenge their fallen comrades. They charged deeper and deeper into the left flank and had discarded their lances in favor of swords. With precise strikes from the elves, countless älfar were dispatched into endingness.
“Back in formation! You must—” A heavily armored elf appeared in front of Arviû. In his right hand he carried a shield and in the left the remains of his lance that he was using like a cudgel. The elf’s polished, gold-colored breastplate reflected the sunlight and blinded Arviû momentarily.
Arviû leaped from his night-mare and landed on the empty, blood-stained saddle of another. He slipped on the blood and lost his balance, then, as he tried to leap again to avoid the fall, a broken spear shaft hit him full in the face.
Time slowed down for him.
He heard wood shattering, splintering into a thousand tiny pieces. The fragments buried themselves in the flesh of the right-hand side of his face. Needle-prick followed needle-prick. The pain increased immeasurably as the splinters pierced deep into his face.
By all the infamous ones! His whole body followed the movement of his head, turning likewise. As he sank backward he saw and heard everything with tremendous clarity: the sounds of the raging battle; weapons sliding through flesh or clanging against armor, bones fracturing, leather tearing, the groans of wounded soldiers. He perceived every detail but was totally unable to change what was happening. His mind and his body had parted company.
What is happening to me?
Then he saw the rest of the lance falling toward him. However hard Arviû tried to raise his hands to protect himself, his arms hung useless by his sides.
No!
“Spear-carriers advance! Right flank: use fire-arrows,” yelled Carmondai as he dashed forward. He would have given anything to be able to raise the visor; he was not getting enough air and the heat was unbearable. “Hold them off and kill them all!”
He could not see what the elf reinforcements were up to at all, but he had to deal with the heavy cavalry first, before they could do any further damage.
Carmondai raced over to the left flank like an älf possessed. He heard enthusiastic shouts as he charged past his troops, his sword in the air. “For the Inextinguishables!”
He was in a kind of trance; his identity from his previous life had surfaced and taken control of his actions.
He could smell blood; he urged his night-mare to jump right into the opposing cavalry advance. Dispensing sword blows on all sides he sent half a dozen elves to die under the pounding hooves.
Fire-arrows from his own side whizzed past his head, terrifying the horses with the smoke and flames. The animals shied and backed off, creating havoc with the enemy formation.
Exactly as I intended. “Down with the elf plague!” Carmondai was tireless in his attack. Enemy blood sprayed his face and entered through the slit in his visor, blinding him momentarily.
When he could see clearly once more, the enemy heavy cavalry was in total disarray and on the retreat. We have fought them off! A loud laugh echoed in the helmet. They’ll be riding straight into their own reinforcements! Utter confusion!
And so it happened: the converging elf ranks could not take avoiding action and were falling under a hail of arrows from the intact right flank of älfar. Complete mayhem ensued.
“Nostàroi! Caphalor’s mounted troops are finishing off the last of the enemy at the mouth of the valley.” A member of his personal guard, his armor slashed and bloodied, had ridden up to make this breathless report.
Carmondai very nearly lifted the visor on his helmet to get some air. He would always have done so in the old days after a battle. His arm and shoulder were painful after all the blows he had dealt out with his sword. “Tell the right flank to pursue the enemy. We will grind them down between us!” He had to rest his head against the neck of his night-mare. I could do with something for my thirst!
“Nostàroi!” He heard an angry cry: “Some of the elves are getting away!”
He turned his mount and looked toward the southwest.
Nearly 1,000 of the heavy cavalry had charged through a narrow breach in the älfar flank, fleeing from the hopeless butchery. They were heading away and out of sight around a curve.
“After them, Nostàroi?”
Carmondai shook his head. “No. We must ensure we beat the main army. Our left flank is too weakened to be able to defeat them. There will be time enough afterward to send fresh troops after them.” He turned back to the battle, where the elves were currently hemmed in on two sides.
Contrary to the old tactics of allowing the opposition a chance to retreat, the älfar now closed up any gap in their own ranks and the elves found themselves caught between two halves of the älfar army.
It is decided. Carmondai thrust his sword back into its sheath; sweat cascaded down his face. When he t
hought no one was looking he raised the visor carefully and took a draft from his water bottle. The unaccustomed exertion was getting to him.
He had done enough in the present moment of unendingness to garner praise—for someone else. To compound the misery, of course, it’s me that’s got to write it all up. A joyless laugh escaped his lips. Sinthoras, you owe me!
Toward sunset, the battle in the little valley was over and done with. The älfar took no prisoners.
Caphalor and Carmondai rode over the enemy corpses, letting their night-mares take gouts of flesh from the cold bodies. Wherever they appeared among their troops, the names of Caphalor and Sinthoras were cheered.
“You fought well. One more little stone in the mosaic of our heroic portrait,” said Caphalor so quietly that only Carmondai would hear him. “We’ll get those who escaped soon enough.”
“I fought brilliantly,” Carmondai corrected him proudly. I shall have to draw all this! All these impressions are still so fresh and just asking to be recorded! “Better than Sinthoras would have.”
Caphalor gave an almost imperceptible nod of agreement. “However, until the very end of unendingness, only you and I will ever know who was responsible for this overwhelming victory.” He held out his hand. “You have won my respect and my admiration in the battle today. This will remain forever and you shall have the benefit, as long as I live.”
Carmondai shook the proffered hand and felt immediately elated.
He enjoyed hearing the enthusiastic soldiers call out to them both; the sweet taste of victory was his to share. And he wanted to continue contributing to their triumphs. As far as I’m concerned, Sinthoras can stay in Dsôn.
“Nostàroi!” An injured archer came up to them. “Come quickly! It’s Arviû.”
Ishim Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, Dsôn,
4371st division of unendingness (5199 solar cycle),
late summer.
Arganaï passed swiftly through the streets of Dsôn with a companion on each side. They had been sent by Demenion to collect the brave young warrior who had brought news of the dorón ashont—and given warning about a surprise attack.
I feel awful. Arganaï had to stop and lean against a wall to recover. “Give me a moment,” he stuttered, fighting the sickness. He was suffering from the after effects of drinking a concoction the healer had prescribed. His broken thumb had become badly infected: the cost of escape had been amputation of his left arm at the elbow. There would have been little to gain, they decided, by a flesh exchange, and the operation would have been too risky.
“I’ll be all right now.” He spat, the bitter inti-herb taste on his tongue. They’d given him so many doses of it it seemed to Arganaï that his body was leaking the stuff. “Right, let’s get on.” He rubbed his brow—it was damp with sweat. His vision clouded and he was not sure where he was. I am nowhere near recovered yet.
At last they reached the entrance to Demenion’s house. His companions handed him over to one of the serfs.
He was led through the premises, but his vision was clouded and he only got vague impressions of the opulence his host lived in. I should have stayed at home.
A door was opened and bright light shone out, hurting his eyes. An älf spoke a greeting to him.
“Thank you, Demenion, for inviting me,” he replied, deciding it would be better not to risk bowing and maybe throwing up on his host’s shoes. “Please excuse my appearance; my wound is still causing a lot of discomfort. The infection has spread and I’m feverish.”
“What are they giving you for it?” Demenion sounded concerned.
“An inti-herb infusion.”
“Oh, I’ve got something that’s better. Remind me to give it to you before you go home. If I give it to you now you’ll fall asleep, and we need to hear what you have to say.”
Arganaï nodded. This was the eleventh invitation he’d had from influential Dsôn families since his return. He had more or less been forced to accept them all. You could not turn these people down if you wanted to avoid any trouble. However, the more he told his story the better known his name became, so his chances for promotion had suddenly risen. Demenion was also a leading light of the Comets faction and their influence had grown with Sinthoras’s rise to power. Arganaï had been told he might get a chance to speak to the Inextinguishables.
“You’ll have to make allowances if I need to take a few breaks.”
“But of course, my guests will understand.”
Arganaï was led into another room. He could smell of a mixture of perfumes and hear soft music. The murmured conversations died away as the guests realized he had arrived. His host introduced him to the company so that he could make his report to them.
It feels like I’m here for their edification, not to simply report the facts. Everyone in Dsôn and the radial arms has heard the news by now, anyway. He felt like some artist who people were being polite to, but who was not really being taken seriously. He felt their eyes on him. They must be looking at the stump of his arm.
Without any particular enthusiasm he recounted his story again. He had told it so often now that he did not really have to concentrate on choosing his words.
No one dared interrupt him, and when he had finished, there was applause.
A fresh wave of nausea hit him. “Forgive me if I leave now,” he apologized, “but I have this fever—”
“We will let you go, of course. Our best wishes for your recovery,” said Demenion, who appeared at his side. “But perhaps you would be good enough to answer a few questions first, if my guests have any?”
Arganaï was aware this was no request. “I’ll do my best,” he said weakly.
“So you are absolutely sure that they were dorón ashont?” someone asked. The voice was female. “Couldn’t they have been half-giants or young ogres or some other monster of that type?”
“I am absolutely certain.” He left it at that. I don’t care whether or not she believes me, just as long as the Inextinguishables do.
“Do you think they can cross the defense canal on their rafts?” a worried-sounding male älf asked.
Arganaï felt his stomach protesting again and had to clamp his jaws together to stop himself from vomiting. His skin was prickling and his belly was making strange noises. “They are huge creatures,” he answered quickly, noting that his breath smelled sour. That medical drink had really turned his insides upside down. “But they’d have to cross the open space first, and that would bring them in range of the catapults. I don’t think they present a real danger to us.” He swayed. “I really have to go, Demenion,” he whispered. “I am as weak as an aged barbarian. The wound—” His knees started to give way under him.
Two of the älfar sprang to his side and held him upright, taking him outside while the applause echoed behind him.
“My thanks,” said Demenion, who escorted him to the door. “This has been a very successful evening, thanks to you. I shall put in a good word for you if the opportunity arises. You should climb the career ladder quickly.” He patted him on the shoulder and disappeared back to his guests.
Outside on the street Arganaï fought for breath.
The fresh air helped a little. He was still being supported but he was starting to feel a little more confident and his vision was beginning to clear. “Thank you,” he said to his companions, who nodded at him encouragingly. Pride won through. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
“You sure?” one of them said, pressing a small vial into his hand. “Demenion said to give you this. Should help with the nausea. Take a couple of small swigs in the morning.”
“Thank you, I’m sure.” Arganaï moved off, his legs stiff. He wandered through the streets looking at the buildings. If you lived in this part of town you had to show you could afford to and the owners had not held back their creative flare.
The least influential inhabitants only had intricate decorations in precious metals, or murals—where the conquest of Tark Draan was a popular motif. Some
house fronts had been completely renovated and already included the downfall of the dorón ashont. Paintings representing älfar enemies incorporated preserved parts of dead bodies. It made for a fascinating mix of culture. There were comparatively few outright sculptures or any abstract forms. Tastes would probably change again in the near future.
Looking at the architecture gave Arganaï something to concentrate on other than his nausea. Even his arm stump had stopped throbbing. He was not aware of these improvements at first, but by the time he had reached his quarters, he was feeling better than he had for a long time.
He found a dozen älfar guards in the room, snoozing in preparation for the early shift.
He got undressed, hung his clothes on the hook by the bed and lay down on the mattress. He took out the vial and looked at it. But the pain has gone! Do I need it?
Arganaï did not yet know what would become of him. He would not be able to go on guard duty with only one arm. He was too young to train other warriors and there was no question of taking up an occupation in the weapons store or in administration. Art was not his thing, either, and he did not enjoy speechifying. He did not see himself as anything other than a warrior.
What am I going to do for the rest of unendingness? He stared at his stump. I’m a fighter and I’m going to drill and practice until I can hold my own with any two-armed warrior!
It suddenly occurred to him that he could have an artificial limb made. A substitute arm, perhaps in the shape of a weapon . . .
Why didn’t I think of that before? This idea improved his general mood tremendously. He took a couple of careful sips of the potion Demenion had sent him to speed up the healing process. Closing his eyes, he waited for sleep. I’m going to be one of the best soldiers in Dsôn!
A hot stab of pain went through his belly and his skin suddenly felt as if it had been whipped with red-hot wire.
Arganaï shot upright on his bed and tried to shout—but there was a hard, dry lump blocking his throat. He thought he was suffocating and grabbed at his throat with both hands. It was as hard as iron.
Help! He thought in desperation, looking at his sleeping comrades, but they noticed nothing. He was about to climb out of bed, but his legs had stopped working.