“The astoi foot are on the move,” Selymakhos Brightblade said and pointed towards the phalanxes as they started their rhythmic march towards the malakiai host, “which means we should be committed shortly.”
Selenike nodded and flexed her lance-hand, trying to shake the effervescent ice-blue thought colour she had sensed a few moments earlier, unable to place from whence it came. Aliastheira looked like she could barely contain her anticipation and excitement, gauntlet opening and closing around the shaft of her truelance, variably switching between standing and sitting in the saddle, her armour clinking with every excited movement. The knights, squires and lancers on the grassy knoll could all hear the rhythmic stomping of the boots of the phalangites, marching in tune to the ceaseless drums and reed-pipes. The arestratoi, knights and lancers had formed up into rough triangle formations of about four-hundred to each formation, with Picked and senior nobles forming the van of each triangle along with their lancies. Banners and standards fluttered in the mild breeze, horses brayed and their ringmail caparisons clinked as they scraped the ground with their hooves. Selenike watched the fluttering signōns, noting the myriad charges and devices; she could see the gargoyle sable salient on a field cendrée with orle gules of House Young Kallimedon, the sabrelion argent passant over erminois of House Theōleon, the longtailed raptors purpure combatant on a field spilt per pale bleu de ciel and argent of House Helionspyre, plus a hundred more, many of which she could not recognise. She looked up at her own truelance banner, a pitiful dovetailed streamer compared to the massive signōns carried by the standard-bearers of the large lancies. Then she tried to focus her gaze on the Mannish host on the other side of the river valley.
It was hard to ascertain size or numbers, but the rise of the small grassy hill meant Selenike was at least able to gain the advantage of height to help her eyesight. The malakiai host seemed to fill the horizon, at least as far as practicable, given the streams cutting into the plains of the valley, and was clearly divided into three battles; the one facing the eulaoi horse was almost entirely made up of the malakiai own horse, the central battle was a dense mass of foot with spears and shields, too many and placed too deep to know where the battle ended, and the far right flank was hard to make out from where Selenike was standing, but seemed to be ensconced behind ditches and short wooden parapets. She let her eyes wander below the hill and to the right, and the immense mass of spears and glistening armour of the eulaoi phalanx made the Mannish foot opposite seems insignificant.
A sudden, freezing, gust of wind sent the cloth of the banners snapping and tugging on their poles and lances, and capes, crests and plumes were rustled. The wind carried with it a sense of warmth, and Selenike could swear she heard unsung words on the blast of air.
“The spellsingers and loremasters have begun their magicks,” Rhylin commented to the right of Selenike, his voice tinny and muffled by his visor-less helmet which he had evidently put on in preparation for the no doubt coming charge.
“Quite right, young one,” Selymakhos replied, caressing the side of Tekhneia’s long, armoured neck, “the winds of Kratia are being woven into the air around us, and the mages are beginning to cast their spells. It will not be long afore they start launching spells across the field.”
He paused to sniff the air, and his squire, the tall redheaded Erytharion did the same.
“White kratia abounds,” the squire said, his thought-colours grey-amethyst, “and it is being woven with a rainbow of powerful magicks. I cannot tell for certain, but we seem to have a very powerful cadre of spellsingers with us.”
“Only the best for the Blood Prince and the Purplemanes,” Aliastheira said as she awkwardly raised a gauntlet to rub the tip of one of her long and thin ears, while balancing the helmet in the crook of her shoulder. Selymakhos raised a sand-coloured eyebrow.
“Judging by your tone, dragon knight, I take it you care little for Prince Eukration and the war-court he keeps?” His tone was neutral, but his thought-colours were turning slightly crimson at the edges. Aliastheira bought a few moments by finally donning her helmet, sans a coif which meant her long blonde hair was left to freely ride over her shoulder armour and red streamer-cape.
“I know not the Prince, Kyr,” she said at length, shaking her now free arm to let the blood flow through the extremity, “and all I have seen of the Purplemanes are their finery in camp and on the march, the spotless armour they don, and their very apparent youthfulness. Not that any of that is a sin in the eyes of Gods and Folk, but to display it on a battlefield after having won your spurs through lineage and fine deeds on the drill grounds, that irks me.”
“You must regale us with your story after the battle then, dragon knight,” Selymakhos replied tersely, but he managed to reel in his thought-colours before they got out of hand. Erytharion was not as careful, and his thought-colours mimicked the colour of his hair.
Their discussion was cut short by the appearance of a bright light overhead, and they all looked up, Selymakhos, Erytharion, Selenike, Lyssa, Rhylin, Aliastheira and all her lancers. A fireball tinged an angry orange seemed to meander over the sky, making its own, furious way towards the Mannish lines. Then it was joined by others, and the clouds started to bend and rend, a myriad of colours coming from seemingly within them. There was movement amongst the Mannish lines, and Selenike could see the tight clusters of men-at-arms try to scatter to avoid the incoming immolation, but it was hard for tightly packed lines of horse to suddenly disperse. Quick darts of energies shot up from the Mannish army, wards of dispelling thrown up by the malakiai spellcasters, and some of them found purchase against the incoming magical fireballs, bursting them into cascades of fluorescent lights and fiery sparks. Some of the infernal orbs landed amongst the malaikai soldiery with great effect. Selenike could see holes torn in the shieldwalls of the malakiai foot, men turned to dancing torches as kratia-infused flames consumed them. The silver trumpets of the eulaoi knights sounded for the third and last time. There was a great clatter as knights and lancers lowered their visors, oaths of moment were chanted out, and the names of Gods were invoked. Selenike lowered her visor, reducing her world to two thin slits, and her breath was pushed back into her face though some could escape through the lower grille in her visor. She hefted her long shield with her left hand from the saddle hook, and grabbed a firm hold of Ghost’s reins.
“O Gods and Goddesses of my ancestors,” Selenike chanted quickly, feeling the pulse of her heart quicken, “watch the deeds I do this day for the honour of mine house and mine gods. O Gods and Goddesses of my ancestors, watch the deeds…”
The thought-colours of the massed eulaoi horse was a cacophony of hues, impossible to keep track of, with reds and purples and tinged greys and moribund off-whites all around them. Selenike concentrated on slowing her breath and through that the beating of her heart. Blood pumped in her long ears, and she was acutely aware that since they were longer than was usual for helikiai, they chafed against the leather cap; it had never been adjusted after she was gifted her armour from the great sire of her house.
I am with you, Child of Mine Kin, always shall my hand give umbrage and my thoughts give succour to thee. Know this, and be comforted that you are but for greater deeds a-chosen.
Selenike managed to stop the sudden wash of nausea and the bile that rapidly rose in her throat, and fought it back down by concentrating on a particular spot on the rump of Aliastheira’s horse in front of her. Not the Voice, not now, please, I will heed thee on the morrow, but not now. The Voice seemed to find mirth in this.
I am with you always, Child of Mine Kin, you shall never wander alone in the darkness as long as the Moon shines beyond the clouds. As I have watched over your House for generations, so shall I watch over you.
Selenike, in an attempt to ignore the Voice, tried to imagine Selenaīs’ touch—a cooling hand amidst the heat of battle, a whisper of currents that should carry her beyond danger. But the fear was too immediate, too visceral. The thought of her family’s pitiful streamer above her, so small compared to the massive standards of the great houses, gnawed at her resolve. Her breath quickened. They will see me falter. They will remember my shame.
There was scant more time to reason with the Voice or her inner voices, as Selenike could hear Aliastheira and her lancers starting to chant in an old dialect, invoking the Spyre-Goddess Ceithnir and her blessings.
“O Ceithnir, Dawnflame, make me your fire. Let my light blind those who would oppose me, and let my strength consume all who stand in my path. My deeds today will carry your glory.”
Aliastheira flexed her fingers again, a futile attempt to release the energy coiled within her, as it gnawed at her extremities. Her excitement bordered on restlessness, her body unable to contain the blazing fire within her thoughts. Yet, beneath the brightness, a shadow lurked—an unspoken fear that she refused to name, and which was not betrayed in her thought-colours. Am I as strong as they believe? As I believe?
Lymethissa folded her gauntleted hands over the shaft of her truelance and clenched the reins in trembling hands, the leather creaking faintly beneath her grip. Her heart hammered so violently she was sure the others could hear it. She closed her eyes, blotting out the sights of the malakiai lines and the distant fires.
“O Laitha, Daughter’s Mercy, I am weak. I know it, as surely as I know the dawn will come. But lend me your light, so that I might face what lies ahead. Let your gentle strength steady me, for mine is gone.”
She swallowed hard and opened her eyes, her thoughts a swirl of pale violets and greys. Around her, the others radiated purpose, each like a star burning against the encroaching darkness. Lyssa felt like a shadow among them, wavering and faint. Let me not falter before their eyes. If I cannot be strong, let me at least endure.
Rhylin lowered his head slightly, his visorless helmet casting a shadow over his eyes. The weight of metal did nothing to ground his thoughts on the primordial. His mind, however, was elsewhere, entreating Telynar, the Silent Veil.
“Telynar, you who see clearly where others stumble, grant me clarity. Still my heart that I may act without undue haste. Let my every move be deliberate, and let my mind cut through chaos like a blade through mist.”
The words steadied him. He turned his gaze back to the field, observing the interplay of spells and soldiers with an analytical eye. He ignored the fireballs streaking across the sky, the cacophony of thought-colors surrounding him, the few pregnant moments before the order to canter was sounded. His thoughts, Rhylin hoped, would remain a calm blue in a sea of crimson and gold. In stillness, there is strength.
Selymakhos closed the facemask visor of the Great Father and said a quick prayer to that majestic Archonte, the Grand Designer and Bearer of the Sword of the Kindred.
“O Koinon, Stalwart Pillar, grant me the strength to endure this trial. Steady my hand, sharpen my resolve, and guide my blade that I may act as your vessel. Let me be the rock amidst the torrent, unyielding and steadfast.”
His thought-colors deepened into hues of amber and iron, solid and unmoving. He opened his eyes as the fireballs began to land among the malakiai lines, the explosions reflecting in his gaze. Selymakhos did not flinch. His duty was clear, and there was no room for doubt.
As the knights, squires and lancers prepared to charge, the prayers of gods and goddesses swirled unseen through the air. Each whispered plea was a thread in a tapestry; each thought a flicker of light against the gathering dark. The wind tugged at their banners, their crests, their capes, as if carrying the echoes of their invocations into the heavens.
The silver trumpets called once more. Visors dropped. Lances lowered. And in the moments before the charge, they were alone with their gods but together with their kin in the thousands. The call to canter was sounded. Glory would be won on the field this day.
----------------------------------------
The wind carried a chill that seemed to bite deeper than steel, worming through the gaps in Oleg’s coarse tunic beneath his mail. Yet there were still voices on the air, voices that he couldn’t place coming from one direction or the other. That was very strange to him in the present moment, considering he was standing in the middle of a massive shieldwall, made up of –as far as he could tell– thousands of men just like him. He adjusted the grip on his spear, slick with sweat despite the cold, and shifted his weight from one aching foot to the other. Around him, the shieldwall groaned and swayed like an old cart under strain. Men muttered under their breath or stared ahead in tense silence, their faces pale and tight-lipped. They were all militia-trained, called to practice with spear and shield on temple-days after mass was sung from the day they turned sixteen winters. No land-man of Kelgwyn was a virgin when it came to hefting spear and shield, and they had practiced how to stand and fight in close quarters, shield protecting the other man’s spear-arm, your own spear-arm protected by the other man’s shield and so forth. And when illustrious Duke Iustin himself, the lord and liege of all of Fal-Tyras had called his banners to fight the elf invaders, Oleg Valka and the militiamen of Hornskeerk had been all too ready to heed his call. It was what the gods had decreed for their lot; work your toil, honour the nobles, and above all praise and obey the gods. Oleg had tried to instil this in his son, but he was afeared that Elan was a bit too young to understand that responsibility. He remembered the last conversation he had had with his family as the levies of Hornskeerk was readying to march out.
The morning air had clung to Oleg’s skin, damp and cold, as if the earth itself was reluctant to let him go. Around him, the village square of Hornskeerk was filled with the clamour of preparation: men saying their goodbyes, the clink of hastily donned mail, and the heavy snorts of draft horses uneasily hitched to supply carts. The Duke’s colours hung limp in the still air, the banner a sullen reminder of what lay ahead. His hands had lingered for a moment on the worn leather before he turned to face his family.
His wife, Manda, stood a step away, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as though holding herself together. Beside her, Elan and Irina clung to each other, the boy’s face alight with excitement while his sister’s was clouded with tears.
“Be strong for me, Manda,” Oleg said softly, his voice steady though his own chest felt heavy. “You’ve kept this family together through worse. I’ll be back before the harvest.”
Manda shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You can’t promise that, Oleg. The Duke’s banners have flown for war before, and many never returned. And this... this is no border skirmish. The elves are not bandits or rebels. This is—”
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“This is the duty of all Kelgwayn men,” Oleg interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. He placed a calloused hand on her shoulder. “If we don’t stand with the Duke, there’ll be nothing left for them to return to.” He nodded toward their children.
“But why?” Manda’s voice cracked, her composure faltering. “Why must it be you? Why must it be any of you? What have we done to the elves to deserve this? Their lords didn’t invade for no reason, they were pushed to this, they have never—” She cut herself off to spare their children, who were pre-occupied with the hustle and bustle of the Hornskeerk militia preparing to head off on campaign. There’s Miller Rosman’s son, Elan would gleefully comment, and oh and there’s old Klotha’s two boys with spears, Irina pointed out, her S’s sounding strange as she was in the middle of shedding her young teeth.
Oleg hesitated. He had asked himself the same question many times since the summons had arrived. The herald (it was in reality a page of one of the lesser knights of the Duke’s household company, but he had the advantage that he could read and write) had come and announced that the great elven king of all the lands of Seldonia had crossed into the valleys of both Greater and Lesser Tyras with great strength. His foot, it was announced from the steps of Hornskeerk’s temple steps, numbered at least fifty-thousand, and his horse and knights half a score thousand. How King Erkenwald of Kelgwyn would answer that, no one knew, but the dukes of Fal-Tyras and Lys-Tyras mustered their strengths as soon as possible. Together, men in the inn over their ales said, they could muster thirty-thousand trained foot, and perhaps three-thousand knights, with another eight-thousand squires, pages and sold-lances. A force of that calibre gathered in one place might assuage the elves from further encroachment. Yet it had done none of the sort, men in the inn over their ales agreed, because the good dukes had decided to fight on separate sides of the wide Kormand mountain range. But Oleg was a sworn land-man to the Duke of Fal-Tyras, and he would go where his lord and gods commanded.
The elves had not attacked unprovoked—he was sure of that, though the tales of burned hamlets and slaughtered peasants had silenced most doubt in the village. Still, it was hard not to think of the rumours whispered in the taverns, of the land disputes and the border raids that had escalated under the Dukes of Fal-Tyras and Lys-Tyras.
“It doesn’t matter why,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “The fighting’s here, Manda. That’s all that matters. If we don’t stop them, they’ll take everything. The farm, the village... you, the children.” He forced himself to meet her gaze, trying to put strength into his words even as doubt gnawed at him.
Manda’s lips trembled, but she nodded, swallowing her fear. “Then come back to us, Oleg. Swear to me you’ll come back.”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted to Elan, who was already bouncing on his heels with barely contained excitement, the clatter and bustle of military activity exciting him like it would have any boy his age, brought up on tales of gallantry and dragon-slaying. “Father,” the boy said eagerly, his voice cutting through the tension. “Will you fight elven knights? Are they really as tall as the priests say? With silver armour and golden swords? They say they don’t ride ‘orses but wind-daemons gifted by evil gods, and that their armour is made of magiks!”
Oleg allowed himself a faint smile and crouched before his son. “Elven knights are just like men, though they may look different,” he said, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. “They fight like us. They bleed like us.” He rested a hand on Elan’s shoulder. “But you need to worry less about knights and more about your mother. She’ll need you to step up while I’m gone.”
Elan’s face fell slightly, though he still bristled with pride. “I will. I’ll look after the farm. But when I’m older, I’ll join the Duke’s knights! Maybe I’ll even ride against the elves myself.”
Oleg’s smile wavered. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh? You’ve got time enough to decide what sort of man you’ll be.”
Irina stepped forward then, her straw doll clutched tightly in her hands. She stared up at him, her blue eyes swimming with tears she was trying hard not to shed. “Do you have to go, Papa?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Can’t someone else go instead?”
Oleg’s chest tightened. He reached out and pulled her close, feeling the frail warmth of her small body against his, despite the unfeeling cold metal of his mail; some feelings of warmth transcended what metal and flesh could feel.
“I have to go, little one,” he said softly, his voice catching. “If I could stay, I would. But someone has to make sure the bad elves don’t come here.”
Irina’s tears spilled over, and she buried her face in his tunic, not caring for the hard rings of mail underneath. “But you’re not a knight,” she sobbed. “You’re just... you’re just Papa.”
He chuckled, though it sounded more like a sigh, and he fought back the sudden stinging sensation of tears. “And that’s why I have to go. Because I’m your Papa. And if Papa can’t go out there to protect you, well then, who will?”
He held her for a long moment before gently easing her back.
Manda stepped forward then, her expression resolute despite the tears brimming in her own eyes. “We’ll be here, Oleg,” she said firmly. “We’ll keep the homestead running. The fields will be planted, the roof patched. When you come back—” Her voice broke, and she took a steadying breath. “When you come back, we’ll be waiting.”
“I know you will,” he said, his voice rough. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, lingering there for a moment as if trying to etch the feel of her into his memory.
The horn sounded then, a long, mournful note that cut through the square. Around them, men began moving, gathering in loose ranks as the Duke’s sergeants barked commands. Oleg rose and hefted his shield, its surface pitted and scarred from years of service from his own father’s time in the militia. He took one last look at his family.
“Take care of each other,” he said, his voice thick. “The gods care for those who care for each other.”
Elan gave a jaunty wave, grinning despite the moment. Irina hugged her doll tighter, her lip trembling. Manda said nothing, only nodding, her hand clutching the pendant she wore around her neck. It was a simple amber triangle, but it had been dug out by Oleg in his youth from the bottom of Great Tyras, and he had shaped it for his beloved from the next village over. That beloved had been Manda, and they had made their thatched Hornskeerk village house their own, complete with their pottage garden, their plot of land where they grew barley, and the adjoining sty where they kept the largest assortment of pigs in the entire village.
Oleg turned and walked toward the gathered militia, the sound of his boots on the dirt path swallowed by the rising din. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. The weight of their eyes would have been too much to bear.
The rhythmic beat of the elf drums rolled over the valley like the tide, a relentless sound that seemed to burrow into Oleg’s chest and settle there, heavy as a millstone. It brought him mercilessly back to the present. Across the field, the phalanx gleamed in the weak light of the overcast sky, a wall of polished helms and exceedingly long spears, their banners snapping crisply in the cold breeze. He couldn’t make out their faces at this distance—only the unnerving, machine-like precision of their march, each with a tall shield and armour many times heavier than what he and the other men of the shieldwall wore.
Oleg’s throat felt dry as sand, and he swallowed hard, his tongue scraping against the roof of his mouth. His thoughts turned unwillingly to Hornskeerk. He could almost see his wife standing in the doorway of their thatched house, their youngest clinging to her skirts while the older boy chased chickens through the yard. He tried to hold onto the image, but it slipped away, replaced by the glaring reality of the field before him.
A priest passed close by, the heavy censer swinging in broad arcs, trailing ribbons of pungent smoke. The scent of burning herbs clawed at Oleg’s nostrils, sharp and bitter. The priest’s voice rang out in a cadence both familiar and alien, invoking the names of gods Oleg had prayed to all his life.
“O Varethys, Shield-Father, ward these sons of the soil! Let their shields be unbroken, their spears strike true! O Daelynn, Hearth-Mother, cast your light upon us, that we may not falter in the shadow of our foes!”
The priest’s fervour felt distant, a song sung to the wind, something that belonged to temples and not fields of battle. Oleg wanted to believe the gods were listening, but all he could feel was the cold wood of the spear in his hands, the suddenly heavy burden of his oaken-bound shield and the crushing press of bodies on either side of him. A shieldwall was seldom the place for comfort, but Oleg started to feel the necessity to step out of formation and draw a deep breath. Yet he did not, because the sergeants would punish him severely for breaking ranks.
“Hold fast,” murmured the man to his right, his voice low and strained. He was older, his beard streaked with grey, and his mail patched in places with rough leather. “They’re flesh and blood same as us. Nothing more.”
Oleg nodded but said nothing. The older man’s words sounded hollow against the sight of the advancing elves, their spears glinting like the teeth of some great beast, their music like some song sung by the messengers of the gods; beautiful and terrible all at once.
To his left, a younger soldier muttered a prayer under his breath, his knuckles white around the haft of his spear. Oleg caught fragments of it, a plea to Naryen, the Storm-Kindler.
“Strike them down, Lord of Thunder. Bring the sky’s wrath upon them. Scatter their ranks and spare us this day.”
Oleg’s own prayer stayed silent, locked behind clenched teeth. What could he offer the gods that they didn’t already have? What bargain could a simple man make with powers so vast? He thought of his family again and gripped his spear tighter. If he had to spill blood today, he would do it for them.
The trumpets of the elven host blared, sharp and cruel and silvery, cutting through the valley like a blade. A shiver ran through the shieldwall, a ripple of unease. Oleg felt it in his bones, in the tightening of his chest, the cold sweat on his brow.
The priests continued their circuit, chanting louder now, their censers swinging like pendulums of judgment. The acrid smoke mingled with the scent of damp earth and fear. Oleg closed his eyes for a brief moment, a fragment of time carved out from the looming chaos.
Varethys, if you are listening, grant me the strength to see this through. Daelynn, watch over my family. Keep them safe. That’s all I ask.
The drums grew louder, and the shieldwall tightened as the elven phalanx drew nearer. Oleg opened his eyes, fixed them on the gleaming line of spears and shields ahead, and took a deep breath.
The elven phalanx moved like the tide, implacable and slow, each step driving a low, thunderous tremor through the ground beneath Oleg’s feet. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the spear, its familiar weight doing little to steady his nerves. Beside him, the shieldwall adjusted in increments, a shuffling chorus of creaking leather, clinking mail, and muttered curses. Sergeants tried to make themselves heard over the din of chants and instruments, and found their voices drowning. Instead they resorted to using physical force to make the shieldwalls close ranks and lock shields; violent taps to unprotected shins and left elbows did the trick, and the infantry host of the Duke of Fal-Tyras closed ranks to greet the advancing eulaoi phalanx.
Oleg forced himself to focus on the rhythm of the drums, a steady beat that seemed to synchronize with his pounding heart. He realised after a while that it was elven drums, and not Kelgwayn ones, and he tried to shut them out. His knuckles ached around the shaft of the spear, the rough wood digging into the calluses of his palms. Around him, men shifted uneasily, the air between them taut as a drawn bowstring. Shields knocked against each other with wooden clatter.
Far to the right, a trumpet sounded, sharp and clear, and Oleg turned his head to see the Kelgwayn knights forming up on their chargers. The Duke of Fal-Tyras rode at their head, his banner high and proud—a golden eagle rampant on a field of black. Oleg could barely make out the glint of their armour and the toss of their warhorses' manes, but the sight stirred something deep within him.
"Look at 'em go," muttered the older soldier to his right. "Highborn fools, riding to their doom."
Oleg said nothing. He watched as the knights began their charge, the thunder of hooves growing louder and louder until it seemed to shake the very earth. Across the field, from a grassy hill, the elven cavalry began their own advance, descending from the hill in perfect formation, their pennants snapping in the wind. They moved with an eerie grace, their horses—if they were horses—running as if untouched by the weight of their armoured riders.
The two forces hurtled toward each other, and Oleg felt his breath catch in his throat. For a moment, it seemed the elves would scatter like deer before the charge of the Kelgwayn knights. But they did not scatter. They lowered their lances in unison, and their formation tightened, lance-tips gleaming like a wall of silver teeth. They were all silent, Oleg noticed, a whole host of elven knights and nobles, charging with visors and lances lowered, and not a sound to be made. Not made of this world…
A sick feeling settled in Oleg’s stomach as he turned his eyes back to the elven phalanx advancing toward his own line. They were close enough now that he could make out individual figures among the mass. The priests had told them that elves were tall but thin, their strength more a trick of magic than muscle. Yet these figures bore no resemblance to the fragile beings he had imagined.
They were giants, towering over even the tallest of men, the lip of their helms brushing seven feet or more. Their long shields gleamed darkly, and the pikes they carried were monstrous things—easily twice over the length of any spear in the Kelgwayn ranks. The way they marched was wrong, an unnatural precision that made Oleg’s skin crawl.
The nearer they came, the clearer their inhumanity became. It wasn’t just their size; their proportions were slightly off, their limbs too long, their strides too smooth. Oleg’s mind balked at it, struggling to reconcile what he saw with what he had been told.
“They’re… they’re not men,” someone whispered hoarsely.
Oleg swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. "Elves," he murmured, though the word felt hollow in his mouth. These were not the slender, graceful figures of old songs. These were creatures of a darker sort, something more akin to monsters poorly masquerading as men.
The older soldier beside him spat on the ground. "Gods preserve us," he muttered.
A ripple of unease spread through the shieldwall, men shifting and murmuring as the elves came ever closer. The priests moved among them more urgently now, their voices rising in frantic prayer.
“O Varethys, stand with us! O Daelynn, guard our homes and kin! Do not abandon us in this hour of need!”
Oleg could hear the fear in their voices, a brittle edge that mirrored the growing tension in his chest. He glanced at the younger soldier to his left, who was clutching his spear so tightly his hands were shaking.
“We’ll hold,” Oleg said, his voice rough but steady. “We have to.”
The younger man nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the approaching giants.
The figures approaching them were not thin, not frail, not delicate. They were massive, their ranks a wall of gleaming shields and impossibly long pikes. Each figure stood taller than any man in the Kelgwayn line, their helms like dark towers atop their heads.
Oleg felt his stomach twist. He blinked hard, trying to shake the sense that something about them was wrong. Not just their size or the unnatural way they carried themselves, but something deeper, more fundamental. Their proportions were off, their limbs too long, their heads slightly too narrow beneath the crests of their helms. They moved as one, a single mind driving countless bodies forward, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
The soldier to his left—young, barely old enough to grow a beard—was muttering under his breath, the same phrase over and over. Oleg couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear. The lad was praying, though whether to Varethys, Daelynn, or some other god, Oleg couldn’t tell.
To Oleg’s right the two forces of horse closed on each other with tremendous speed, the ground trembling beneath their combined might. The Kelgwayn knights let out a great roar, a sound to shake the heavens, but the elves did not answer. They charged in silence, their lances held steady, their lines unbroken. Their clash would be soon, but that would not be Oleg's business, his was to his front.
“By the gods,” the older man to Oleg’s right breathed. “Look at ’em. They don’t even break stride.”
Oleg tore his gaze away from the cavalry to look back at the phalanx. They were closer now, close enough that he could see the edges of the runes etched into their shields and the dark gleam of their armour. The pikes they carried were monstrous, far longer than any weapon Oleg had ever seen, their tips sharp enough to gleam like stars even in the dim light.
“They’re…” The words stuck in his throat. He had no words for what they were. The priests had told them the elves were frail, weaker than men, relying on sorcery and deceit to win their battles. These creatures were not frail. They were giants, their forms carved from something harder than flesh.
“They’re monsters,” someone said, barely more than a whisper.
A ripple of unease passed through the line. Men shifted, their shields bumping together, their breaths coming faster. The priests redoubled their efforts, their voices rising in frantic supplication.
“Hold, O Kelgwayn sons! The gods are with you! Stand fast!”
Oleg swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the damp air. The gods may have been watching, but they seemed distant now, their favour uncertain. He tightened his grip on his spear and set his feet, stealing a glance to his left and right. The shieldwall was still holding, but he could see the fear in the eyes of the men around him.
The elven phalanx surged forward, their advance quickening, and Oleg felt his stomach drop. There was no shouting, no chanting, no roar of battle cries. Only the relentless march of iron and flesh, a force that felt unstoppable.
The drums of the Kelgwayn army fell silent.
The shieldwall braced.
And then, with a sound like a thunderclap, the battle began.