by C A Oliver
“We cannot let that happen. It’s never the easy victories that go down in history. Glory is only earned when valour wins the day, whatever the odds before the battle begun. The time to show our immense courage is now.”
This passionate plea seemed to have made its mark upon Roquendagor who remained silent. After a while, the tall knight made his decision. His gaze burnt like looming fire.
“To avoid a probable defeat, you need a wise defensive strategy. To achieve an unlikely victory, however, the unexpected attack is your only hope. We will sweep down from this height upon the enemy’s reserve fighters and seize what is most precious to him: his prisoners. Then we flee into the mountains. They will have to pursue us, thus disorganizing their ranks and giving Gal dyl’s army a chance to escape.”
“I fully disagree,” countered Aewöl immediately, imploring them to think of their own interests. “This is madness. In the days of Essawylor, we only ever fought when we were sure of victory.”
“And we ended up losing Ystanlewin. Our friends and families perished because of our failure,” Roquendagor reminded him, hypnotized by that grim memory, which obscured almost every moment of his new life.
“If we want to live a prosperous life on these islands, we cannot act as if we’re invincible. I don’t doubt that there will be many other challenges to come. Are battles only fought to seek glory? No. The best warriors remain in the shadows, uncelebrated in songs... Let me ask you a question. What do we gain by wading into this conflict?”
Roquendagor, whose decision had already been made, did not even consider answering his former counsellor. The tall knight was already planning his next move.
“We will force this Eno Mowengot to change his tactics. We will win by targeting his weakest points and avoiding his stronger units. We must wait for the moment he decides to unleash his best troops; the moment they charge into the lowest depths of the vale. Then we can launch a surprise attack against his disorganised reserve, which will be caught unprepared. Those weak troops will be prone to disorder.”
“This is folly,” complained Aewöl, still in total disagreement.
Roquendagor, who was not used to being contradicted, replied sharply.
“On the contrary: we are taking the unwatched road and attacking their least-guarded flank, and we will quickly withdraw with the prisoners. When striking the snake at its tail, speed is the key, for you can be sure that its head will soon snap round. Our attack may well allow the Elvin army to avoid being routed and retreat in an orderly manner.”
Curwë then spoke up, attempting to convince his two other companions who remained uncertain.
“I say we have a chance. We are not going up against fresh troops. Our backs are against the hill; we have the higher ground. There is nothing obstructing our retreat into the mountain’s rocky slopes after we strike. Our escape route is clear. Most of those soldiers are tired or wounded. Their spirits are low after what they’ve been through already. If we press them hard, they won’t fight to the death.”
“Let us show our strength. The sun is in our backs. And we have the element of surprise,” concluded Roquendagor simply.
The four Elves resumed their watch. There were many birds of prey perched upon the cliffs and outcrops. Flocks were circling high in the air, black against a pale sky. From time to time, a hawk would plunge into the fight, eager to assist when its master’s life was at risk. As the hours slowly passed, the Elves from Mentollà still lay in wait, peering down into the encroaching gloom. They were awaiting their enemy’s slow march from afar; they rested while the Nellos reserve laboured hard, busy organizing the withdrawal of the wounded back towards where the captives were being kept. Suddenly, loud orders echoed throughout the gorge, as officers began waving flags of different colours in the evening mist.
“Look! It is starting. These units of Men that were standing in reserve are being ordered to march. They know the terrain around the river, the choke points in the valley and the boggy ground in the lower marshes. They will use this knowledge to their advantage,” said Roquendagor.
An imperceptible tension grew amongst the small group, for each Elf knew that the moment to launch their raid was upon them. All looked to Roquendagor. The knight was orderly in the face of chaos, calm in the face of commotion. Such was how he managed his heart.
“We move. Strike like lightning!” ordered Roquendagor.
Curwë repeatedly blew his small horn until the very foothills surrounding them rang out. Many different echoes came back from the gorge, as if dozens of Elvin trumpets were answering Curwë’s call. But he was also answered by loud yells in the Westerners’ tongue, and the clattering of steel weapons being drawn. The cruel bow of Gelros began to sing. Arrows flew from the Elvin string with an almost impossible frequency. The cries and calls of the Nellos soldiers rang out throughout the valley and, among them, the sharp orders of the knight sorcerers.
“Fire of Narkon!” someone in the bushes suddenly screamed.
Then, just where the reserve soldiers were gathering their equipment, there was a sudden burst of flame, like a blacksmith’s forge exploding under too much pressure, which detonated out of nothing with a low roar. The burst of the dark fire released a huge amount of pressure near the prisoners’ camp, where their guards stood. Everything flammable in the area was ignited. The heat of the explosion even melted the metal of the guards’ armour. Many Men died, others just about managed to dodge the impact or roll aside. The smell of sulphur was thick in the air.
The remaining guards looked around at the terrifying spectacle, paralysed by the prospect of having to join in the fray. Their camp was burning. All around them, hot ashes were still smouldering. By their feet lay broken helms, plate mail, shields, swords and many burnt corpses amid other ruined equipment. Smoke was now raising high in the sky and could be seen by all combatants fighting in the valley below.
A second explosion was heard. A curtain of dark, shadowy fire blazed around the guards: an opaque sheet of flames ten feet high that formed a semi-circle, emanating waves of intense heat. The surviving soldiers drew their swords and daggers but hesitated. All round the small knoll on which they were gathered; fires were springing up, the dark flames moving likes shadows, until a complete ring was formed. Some of the archers shot their arrows at the dancing fire, until they realized it was a waste of their missiles. The swiftly moving silhouettes of two tall Elves could be barely seen in the fire dark’s smoke.
Roquendagor rushed forward, his eyes wild. Drawing his blade and crying
“Roq Laorn! Roq Laorn!” he charged down the hill.
His huge two-handed sword gleamed with a singular brilliance, almost a luminescence, amidst the swarm of black flames that surrounded him. Aewöl covered Roquendagor’s flanks with his light crossbow, as he chanted mysterious verses. The one-eyed Elf looked as if he himself was on fire. Thin, dark flames wisped around his cloak, giving him the appearance of a demon of the Underworld. None dared approach him and many fled in panic at his coming, overcome with a mystical terror.
Roquendagor rushed down the final section of slope at full speed, slamming into the first lines of soldiers who had stayed with the prisoners. Once his charge had cleaved the unit of Nellos fighters in two, he began a massacre. Arms were cut off, heads decapitated, and limbs split in two, as fountains of blood erupted all around him. The cruelty and ferocity of Roquendagor’s attack immediately inspired intense horror in the hearts of all who saw. Some archers drew their long bows and fired at the formidable Elf, but none could pierce his chain mail; the shadowy veil that surrounded him seemed to provide unnatural protection.
In the melee, Roquendagor saw the bald knight sorcerer: a large Man with broad shoulders, powerful arms and a muscular exposed torso. Without warning, the Man sprang forward as a number of his guards began to flee. With a swift stroke of his blade, the bald warrior sliced the head off one of the deserters. The other wounded guards scrabbled away, cursing their commander behind them. There was m
uch confusion.
The knight sorcerer threw his javelin at the tall Elf. The short spear flew over the melee and pierced the Elfin chain mail, burying itself in Roquendagor’s left shoulder. Blood spurted out of the wound, drenching the front of the Elf’s armour.
But, despite his wound, Roquendagor continued to fight, massacring enemies as he attempted to withdraw from the melee. His blood sprayed out again when he managed to yank the spear from his shoulder. Roquendagor pressed the burning blade of his two-handed sword onto the wound to stem the bleeding.
“Get behind me Agadeon!” he cried with pain and seemed to lose all sense of self-preservation.
Terrified at the Elf’s frantic resolution, more guards fled, leaving the bald warrior almost alone with his two prisoners. Roquendagor rushed towards the last remaining soldiers, like a wounded lion leaping into battle one last time. He killed the first Westerner with a throw of a spear he picked up, which struck the Man in the chest. Then he killed a second; Roquendagor literally split the guard in two with the sharp edge of his sword. The blow hit the Man in the shoulder and continued down through his torso in a fresh eruption of blood. His severed bust thumped onto the ground. Such was the atrocity of the scene that three more terrorized soldiers took to their heels.
Only two opponents now separated Roquendagor from the bald warrior and his prisoners. The tall Elf threw a stone at the first, who could not get out of its way before it smashed into his hip. The unfortunate Westerner cried out in pain and fell to the ground, helpless. Roquendagor went to finish him with a thrust of his sword, but the last remaining guard stepped in his way. Carried away by his rage, Roquendagor assaulted the Man with a ferocious swing, which slashed his forearm. The soldier fainted in agony. Roquendagor now faced the bald warrior, the last bastion between himself and the two prisoners. The Westerner did not move, waiting for his foe to attack.
“BANG!”
In that very moment, down in the valley, there was a formidable crash, which echoed long around the gorge. The flash of flame and smoke had been seen by all combatants on the battlefield. A chariot had exploded, killing many Elves. A gaping hole was blasted into the Elvin vanguard. The trap designed by Eno Mowengot was closing in around the army of Gal dyl. The knight sorcerer commander was positioned on the edge of a cliff that looked out over the battlefield, a hundred yards away from Roquendagor’s position. Surrounded by his personal guard, Eno Mowengot pointed his golden gauntlet in the direction of the Elvin units, which were struggling to retreat. From the flaming chariot, a rain of fire began to pour down upon the Elves of Llymar, setting their clothes ablaze, burning their flesh and terrorizing even their bravest fighters.
A hundred yards east of the cliff’s edge, Roquendagor moved forward, as righteous and noble as the engraved portrait of an ancient Dol lord. The bald warrior waived his golden gauntlet. Roquendagor saw that it only had five fingers; the sixth was mutilated. His naked torso was covered in tattoos, his face in tribal markings. Muscular as a bull, tall as a Giant, his great stature was terrifying.
“Come, Elf warrior! Come to me! Experience the gentle touch of my golden hand,” roared the knight sorcerer.
He slowly lifted his scimitar above his head, drinking the blood that ran down the blade. Roquendagor could wait no longer.
Crying, “Roq Laorn! Roq Laorn!” he charged headlong to greet his foe.
Their blades met with a big clash. But the fury of the Elf was greater. His skill with the two-handed sword equalled the bravest knights of bygone ages. Roquendagor clove through his opponent’s defences like a scythe through a wheat field. His long blade broke into many shards as he cut the golden gauntlet from the bald warrior’s arm. The Westerner was thrown down by the force of the blow. Roquendagor leapt into the air and landed on his wounded enemy. He began hammering at the Man with his fists. They began fighting hand-to-hand on the ground, wrestling and grappling as they stood up, each looking for an opportunity to throw or strike the other.
Both warriors were fighting with everything they had to gain and maintain a superior position. Finally, out of a seemingly unbreakable grapple, Roquendagor executed a ferocious throw. He then pinned his opponent to the ground to ensure his victory. He used his full body weight to contain the Westerner as he choked him with both hands. After a few spasms, the bald warrior let out a shrill cry. The echo of his wailing died in the wind.
“Victory is mine !!!” roared Roquendagor with a gleam in his bloodshot eyes.
Still at the cliff’s edge, indifferent to the fate of his companion, Eno Mowengot was now conjuring volleys of flaming arrows against the Elvin army. Nothing, it seemed, could put a stop to the bloodbath he was orchestrating, as he unleashed the full might of his power against the forces of Llymar. The Elvin army seemed like it would be routed any moment, surrounded and outnumbered as they were by the Nellos troops.
“I have no more bolts!” Curwë exclaimed and he threw away his crossbow.
Leaping to his feet, Curwë drew both his sword and Rowë’s dagger. At his side, Gelros was still firing his own arrows. Curwë started running down the hill straight in front of him. He quickly emerged out of the cover of the undergrowth. His gaze was fixed on the cairn overlooking the valley, upon which Eno Mowengot stood, summoning a deluge of fire to swamp the Elvin army below.
Each of Curwë steps brought him closer to his target. As if possessed by an indomitable courage, he charged. Curwë jumped over waterlogged ditches, fallen trees and jutting stumps. Impervious to fear, he relinquished all caution in pursuit of this decisive feat. Nyriele’s father was about to be defeated, perhaps killed. His body and spirit were enflamed by the oath he had made to the young matriarch. There was no way he would return to Llafal with the mark of failure on his forehead. He would not let that happen. Curwë reached the bottom of the slope and rushed at the first ring of defence around Eno Mowengot. Suddenly appearing in the full light of sun.
“Roq Laorn!” Curwë madly yelled the war cry of House Dol Lewin.
He slammed into the first guards, toppling them with the force of his attack. Curwë lost all awareness of danger, his frantic howling rising up above the murmur of battle below. He was slashing and thrusting at a multitude of enemies: breaking limbs, smashing skulls and stabbing at flesh, until the blade of his sword was broken in the fray. He was terrible to behold, as if protected by a powerful Deity. Combining physical prowess and a fierce focus, Curwë threw his broken sword, which spun in a long arc before striking one of his numerous enemies at a distance. He could see his own blood spilling out of numerous wounds, but the energy and hatred that inhabited him mitigated the pain. Refusing to give up, Curwë was now fighting his way towards the cairn.
Only two guards were between him from the dreaded knight sorcerer. Without thinking, he threw Rowë’s dagger straight at the face of the first defender. The soldier’s helm did not protect him. The dagger’s blade tore through his lips; he had to spit out several broken teeth. The guard fell to the ground with a grim crunch as his neck struck a rock. Taken aback by the violence of the assault, the second defender remained motionless, unable to put his long spear to use, paralysed by his proximity to his doom.
Curwë, now unarmed, leapt at him, seizing his neck with his bare hands, squeezing with murderous rage and then head-butting, smashing the soldier’s nose and his lips with his forehead. His hands did not let go until the Man 's vertebrae broke between his fingers. The guard fell first to his knees, his arms motionless, before he flopped down onto the ground, his body convulsing violently.
“SLASH!” A red sword, covered in raging flames, cut through the air.
Curwë rolled to the ground to avoid the deadly blow. The burning blade continued into a guard’s corpse, splattering more blood across the ground. Curwë managed to recover Rowë’s dagger, but he quickly realized that its short blade would be of no avail against the opponent he was now facing. Standing tall and straight on the cairn above the cliff, Eno Mowengot, in his golden armour, was surrounding by
red flames. The Golden Hand commander looked like a statue of the Greater God of Fire dominating the war-torn landscape. He held, in his six-fingered gauntlet, a cylindrical box marked with runes. Curwë recognized it as the same precious box he had seen in the hands of the Elf of many shadows.
“The testament of Rowë,” he murmured.
As Eno Mowengot raised his burning long sword in the air, he spoke words of power.
“Astanar Gweïwal Narkon!”
The air around him seemed to rip open, like a silk sheet tearing into pieces, and from the void blew the breath of a volcano. The temperature around the knight sorcerer rose to unnatural heights, and a horn of fire formed along the reddish blade. Curwë knew that his end was near. In a tremendous discharge of energy, fire sprang from the blade in his direction. The blast beat him back down the cairn steps but, in a desperate effort, he just about managed to protect himself with his cloak. Fire was consuming everything around him, burning plants, corpses, weapons and armour to ashes, but to his astonishment his mantle resisted. Scintillating reflections of butterflies appeared over the cloth.
Then, a horrible pain seized Curwë; his boots were on fire. A new wave of hatred flooded his being, rising up in his chest until its power made him find his way to his feet. Now standing, his hair burning and obscuring his vision, he rushed forward, dagger in hand. The blood drained from his face. Curwë pounced up the dozen steps that separated him from his enemy with lightning speed. The red sword pierced his side. His left hand grabbed the knight sorcerer’s armour. His dagger pierced through the golden gauntlet, severing flesh and tendons. Curwë pushed his opponent forward; in the tussle, both were set ablaze. Like a flaming torch cast from a fortress wall, the two opponents fell off the cliff, from a great height. Their bodies came crushing into the tree branches below, bouncing on the slope of the gorge, before disappearing into the thick bushes of the pine forest below.