Their wonderful magical shield had failed them. They did not know how or why, but most of the elves were convinced that it had been penetrated by an evil machination of the Knights of Neraka.
“To that end, General,” Glaucous was saying, “the capture of their leader is of the utmost importance. Bring this girl in for interrogation. She will tell me how she managed to thwart the shield’s magic.”
“What makes you think she will tell you?” Konnal asked, annoyed at the wizard and his harping on this subject alone.
“She may refuse, General,” Glaucous assured him, “but she will not have any choice in the matter. I will use the truth-seek on her.”
The two were in the general’s command tent. They had met early that morning with the elf officers. Silvan had explained his strategy. The officers had agreed that the tactics were sound. Konnal had then dismissed them to deploy their men. The enemy was reported to be about five miles away. According to the scouts, the Knights of Neraka had halted to arm themselves and put on their armor. They were obviously preparing for battle.
“I cannot spare the men who would be required to seize a single officer, Glaucous,” the general added, recording his orders in a large book. “If the girl is captured in battle, fine. If not …” He shrugged, continued writing.
“I will undertake her capture, General,” Silvan offered.
“Absolutely not, Your Majesty,” Glaucous said hurriedly.
“Give me a small detachment of mounted warriors,” Silvan urged, coming to stand before the general. “We will circle around their flank, come in from behind. We will wait until the battle is fairly joined and then we will drive through the lines in a wedge, strike down her bodyguard, capture this commander of theirs and carry her back to our lines.”
Konnal looked up from his work.
“You said yourself, Glaucous, that discovering the means by which these evil fiends came through the shield would be useful. I think His Majesty’s plan is sound.”
“His Majesty puts himself in too much danger,” Glaucous protested.
“I will order members of my own bodyguard to ride with the king,” Konnal said. “No harm will come to him.”
“It had better not,” Glaucous said softly.
Ignoring his adviser, Konnal walked over to the map, stared down at it. He laid his finger on a certain point. “My guess is that the enemy commander will take up her position here, on this rise. That is where you should look for her and her bodyguard. You can circle around the battle by riding through this stand of trees, emerging at this point. You will be practically on top of them. You will have the element of surprise, and you should be able to strike before they are aware of you. Does Your Majesty agree?”
“The plan is an excellent one, General,” said Silvan with enthusiasm.
He was to wear new armor, beautifully made, wonderfully designed. The breastplate bore the pattern of a twelve-pointed star, his helm was formed in the likeness of two swan’s wings done in shining steel. He carried a new sword, and he now knew how to use one, having spent many hours each day since his arrival in Silvanost studying with an expert elf swordsman, who had been most complimentary on His Majesty’s progress. Silvan felt invincible. Victory would belong to the elves this day, and he was determined to play a glorious part, a part that would be celebrated in story and song for generations to come.
He left, ecstatic, to go prepare for battle.
Glaucous lingered behind.
Konnal had returned to his work. Glaucous made no sound, but Konnal sensed his presence, as one senses hungry eyes watching one in a dark forest.
“Begone. I have work to do.”
“I am going. I only want to emphasize what I said earlier. The king must be kept safe.”
Konnal sighed, looked up. “If he comes to harm, it will not be through me. I am not an ogre, to kill one of my own kind. I spoke in haste yesterday, without thinking. I will give my guards orders to watch over him as if he were my own son.”
“Excellent, General,” said Glaucous with his beautiful smile. “I am much relieved. My hopes for this land and its people depend on him. Silvanoshei Caladon must live to rule Silvanesti for many years. As did his grandfather before him.”
“Are you certain you will not reconsider and ride with us, Kiryn? This will be a battle celebrated for generations to come!”
Silvan fidgeted under the ministrations of his squire, who was attempting to buckle the straps of the king’s damascened armor and having a difficult time of it. The leather was stiff and new, the straps refused to ease into place. Silvan’s constant shifting and moving did not help matters.
“If Your Majesty would please hold still!” the exasperated squire begged.
“Sorry,” Silvan said and did as he was told, for a few seconds at any rate. Then he turned his head to look at Kiryn, who sat on a cot, watching the proceedings. “I could lend you some armor. I have another full suit.”
Kiryn shook his head. “My uncle has given me my assignment. I am to carry dispatches and messages between the officers. No armor for me. I must travel light.”
A trumpet call sounded, causing Silvan to give such a start of excitement that he undid a good quarter of an hour’s worth of work. “The enemy is in sight! Hurry, you oaf!”
The squire sucked in a breath and held his tongue. Kiryn added his assistance, and between the two of them the king was readied for battle.
“I would embrace you for luck, Cousin,” said Kiryn, “but I would be bruised for a week. I do wish you luck, though,” he said more seriously as he clasped Silvan’s hand in his, “though I hardly think you’ll need it.”
Silvan was grave, solemn for a moment. “Battles are chancy things, Samar used to say. One man’s bravery may save the day. One man’s cowardice may spoil it. That is what I fear most, Cousin. More than death. I fear that I will turn coward and flee the field. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen good men, brave men fall to their knees and tremble and weep like little children.”
“Your mother’s courage flows in your veins along with your father’s fortitude,” Kiryn reassured him. “You will not fail their memories. You will not fail your people. You will not fail yourself.”
Silvan drew in a deep breath of the flower-scented air, let it out slowly. The sunshine was like warm honey spilling from the sky. All around him were familiar sounds and smells, sounds of battle and war, smells of leather and sweat, sounds and smells he had been born to, sounds and smells he had come to loathe but which, oddly, he had also come to miss. His playground had been a battlefield, a command tent his cradle. He was more at home here, he realized, than he was in his fine castle.
Smiling ruefully, he walked out of his tent, his armor of silver and gold gleaming brightly, to be greeted by the enthusiastic cheers of his people.
The battle plans for both sides were simple. The elves formed ranks across the field, with the archers in the rear. The army of the Knights of Neraka extended their thinner lines among the trees of the low hillside, hoping to tempt the elves into attacking rashly, attacking up hill.
Konnal was far too smart to fall for that. He was patient, if his troops were not, and he kept fast hold of them. He had time, all the time in the world. The army of the Knights of Neraka, running low on supplies, did not.
Toward midafternoon, a single braying trumpet sounded from the hills. The elves gripped their weapons. The army of darkness came out of the hills on the run, shouting insults and defiance to their foes. Arrows from both sides arced into the skies, forming a canopy of death above the heads of the armies, who came together with a resounding crash.
When battle was joined, Silvan and his mounted escort galloped into the woods on the west side of the battlefield. Their small force screened by the trees, they rode around the flank of their own army, crossed over enemy lines, and rode around the enemy’s flank. No one noticed them. No one shouted or called out. Those fighting saw only the foe before them. Arriving at a point near the edge of the field, S
ilvan called a halt, raising his hand. He rode cautiously to the edge of the forest, taking the commander of the general’s guard with him. The two looked out upon the field of battle.
“Send out the scouting party,” Silvan ordered. “Bring back word the moment they have located the enemy commanders.”
The scouts proceeded ahead through the woods, edging closer to the field of battle. Silvan waited, watching the progress of the war.
Combat was hand to hand. The archers on both sides were now effectively useless, with the armies locked together in a bloody embrace. At first, Silvan could make nothing of the confusion he looked upon, but after watching several moments, it seemed to him that the elf army was gaining ground.
“A glorious victory already, Your Majesty,” his commander said in triumph. “The vermin are falling back!”
“Yes, you are right,” Silvan replied, and he frowned.
“Your Majesty does not seem pleased. We are crushing the human insects!”
“So it would seem,” said Silvan. “But if you look closely, Commander, you will note that the enemy is not running in panic. They are falling back, certainly, but their movements are calculated, disciplined. See how they hold their line? See how one man steps in to take the place if another falls? Our troops, on the other hand,” he added with disgust, “have gone completely berserk!”
The elves, seeing the enemy in retreat, had broken ranks and were flailing at the enemy in a murderous rage, heedless of the shouts and cries of their commanders. Competing trumpet calls sounded over the screams of the wounded and dying, fighting their own battle. Silvan noted that the Dark Knights listened closely for their trumpet calls and responded immediately to the brayed commands, while the maddened elves were deaf to all.
“Still,” Silvan said, “we cannot help but win, seeing that we outnumber them so greatly. The only way could possibly lose would be to turn our swords on ourselves. I will have a few words with General Konnal on my return, however. Samar would never permit such a lack of discipline.”
“Your Majesty!” One of the scouts returned, riding at a full gallop. “We have located the officers!”
Silvan turned his horse’s head, rode after the scout. They had advanced only a short way through the forest, before they met up with another scout, who had been left to keep watch.
He pointed. “There, Your Majesty. On that rise. They’re easy to see.”
So they were. A huge minotaur, the first Silvan had ever seen, stood upon the rise. The minotaur wore the regalia of a Knight of Neraka. A massive sword was buckled at his side. He was watching the progress of the battle intently. Twelve more Knights, mounted on horses, were also observing the battle. Beside them stood the standard-bearer, holding a flag that might have once been white, but was now a dirty brownish red color, as if it had been soaked in blood. An aide stood nearby, holding the reins of a magnificent red horse.
“Surely the minotaur is their commander,” Silvan said. “We were misinformed.”
“No, Your Majesty,” the scout replied. “See there, behind the minotaur. That is the commander, the one with the blood-red sash.”
Silvan could not see her, at first, and then the minotaur stepped to one side to confer with another of the Knights. Behind him, a slight, delicate human female stood on a knoll, her gaze fixed with rapt intensity upon the battle. She carried her helm beneath her arm. A morning star hung from a belt at her waist.
“That is their commander?” Silvan said, amazed. “She does not look old enough to be attending her first dance, much less leading seasoned troops into battle.”
As if she had heard him, though that was impossible, for she was a good forty yards distant, she turned her face toward him. He felt himself suddenly exposed to her view, and he backed up hurriedly, keeping to the deep shadows of the dense woods.
She stared in his direction for long moments, and Silvan was certain that they had been seen. He was about to order his men forward, when she turned her head away. She said something to the minotaur, apparently, for he left his conference and walked over to her. Even from this distance, Silvan could see that the minotaur regarded the girl with the utmost respect, even reverence. He listened intently to her orders, looked over his shoulder at the battle and nodded his horned head.
He turned and, with a wave of his hand, summoned the mounted Knights. With a roar, the minotaur ran forward toward the rear of his own lines. The Knights galloped after him, with what purpose Silvan could not tell. A countercharge, perhaps.
“Now is our chance, Your Majesty!” said the commander excitedly. “She stands alone.”
This was beyond all possible luck, so far beyond that Silvan mistrusted his good fortune. He hesitated before ordering his men forward, fearing a trap.
“Your Majesty!” the commander urged. “What are you waiting for?”
Silvan looked and looked. He could see no troops lying in ambush. The mounted Knights of the enemy were riding away from their commander.
Silvan spurred his horse and galloped forward, the other soldiers streaming behind him. They rode with the swiftness of an arrow, with Silvan as the silver arrowhead, aiming straight at the enemy’s heart. They were halfway to their destination before anyone was aware of them. The girl kept her gaze fixed on her forces. It was her standard-bearer who spotted them. He cried out and pointed. The red horse lifted its head, whinnied loud enough to rival the trumpets.
At the sound, the minotaur halted in his charge and turned around.
Silvan kept the minotaur in the corner of his eye as he rode, dug his spurs into his horse’s flank, urging more speed. The mad race was exhilarating. A skilled rider, he outdistanced his bodyguard. He was not far from his objective now. She must have heard the pounding hooves, but still she did not turn her head.
A great and terrible roar sounded over the battlefield. A roar of grief and rage and fury. A roar so horrible that the sound caused Silvan’s stomach to shrivel and brought beads of sweat to his forehead. He looked to see the minotaur rushing for him, a great sword raised to cleave him in twain. Silvan gritted his teeth and pressed the horse forward. If he could lay his hands on the girl, he would use her as both shield and hostage.
The minotaur was extraordinarily fast. Though he was on foot and Silvan was mounted, it seemed that the racing minotaur must reach Silvan before Silvan’s horse could reach the enemy commander. Silvan looked from the minotaur to the girl. She had still taken no notice of him. She seemed completely unaware of her danger. Her gaze was fixed upon the minotaur.
“Galdar,” she called, her voice beautifully clear, oddly deep. “Remember your oath.”
Her voice resounded over the cries and screams and clashing steel. The call acted upon the minotaur like a spear to his heart. He ceased his furious rush. He stared at her, his gaze pleading.
She did not relent, or so it seemed. She shifted her gaze from him to the heavens. The minotaur gave another howl of rage and then plunged his sword into the ground, drove it into the cornfield with such force that he buried it halfway to the hilt.
Silvan galloped up the rise. At last the girl shifted her gaze from the heavens. She turned her eyes full upon Silvan.
Amber eyes. Silvan had never seen the like. Her eyes did not repel him but drew him forward. He rode toward her, and he could see nothing but her eyes. It seemed he was riding into them.
She clasped her morning star, hefted it in her hand, and stood awaiting him fearlessly.
Silvan dashed his horse up the small rise, came level with the girl. She struck at him with the morning star, a blow he deflected easily, kicking it aside with his foot. Another kick knocked the morning star from her hand and sent her staggering backward. She lost her balance, fell heavily to the ground. His guards surrounded her. The guards killed her standard-bearer and made an attempt to seize the horse, but the animal lashed out with its hooves. Breaking free of the holder, the horse charged straight for the rear lines, as if it would join the battle alone and riderless.
> The girl lay stunned on the ground. She was covered with blood, but he could not tell if it was hers or that of her standard-bearer, who lay decapitated by her side.
Fearing she would be trampled, Silvan furiously ordered his guards to keep back. He slid from his horse, ran to the girl and lifted her in his arms. She moaned, her eyes fluttered. He breathed again. She was alive.
“I will take her, Your Majesty,” offered his commander.
Silvan would not give her up. He placed her on his saddle, climbed up behind her. Clasping one arm around her tightly, he took hold of the reins in the other. Her head rested against his silver breastplate. He had never in his life seen any face so delicate, so perfectly formed, so beautiful. He cradled her tenderly, anxiously.
“Ride!” he ordered and he started for the woods, riding swiftly, but not so swiftly that he risked jarring her.
He rode past the minotaur, who was on his knees beside his buried sword, his horned head bowed in grief.
“What do you men think you are doing?” Silvan demanded. Several of the elves were starting to ride in the minotaur’s direction, their swords raised. “He is not a threat to us. Leave him.”
“He is a minotaur, Your Majesty. He is always a threat,” protested the commander.
“Would you kill him unarmed and unresisting?” Silvan demanded sternly.
“He would have no compunction killing us, if the situation was reversed,” the commander replied grimly.
“And so now we are reduced to the level of beasts,” Silvan said coldly. “I said leave him, Commander. We have achieved our objective. Let us get out of here before we are overrun.”
Indeed, that seemed likely. The army of the Knights of Neraka was falling back rapidly now. Their retreat was in good order, they were keeping their lines intact. Silvan and his Knights galloped from the field, Silvan bearing their prize proudly in his arms.
Dragons of a Fallen Sun Page 53