Fourteenth of Nirakos

Year 1182 of Emancipation

The past three days must have been demoralising to the Svaletans, Echtalon thought. Since the night raid, Faelin had struck them six times. Though these were mainly harassments by pairs of archers who slipped away before anyone could respond, there had also been another night-time raid on the thirteenth. They were off balance, uncertain, expecting death at any moment. It was finally the day appointed for Faelin’s main attack, and Echtalon could see the wariness of the Svaletans even at this distance. He forced himself to turn away as Faelin continued her final briefing of the company commanders. It was still dark, but they could see as clearly as they would at midday.

“I will lead this company to the boats and seize the bridge,” Faelin was saying. “We will hold just around this river bend until we hear your assault begin. Once they are focused on the main force, we will slip in behind them and take the bridge before they can reorient. Then they will be caught between both our forces and be crushed.”

Her commanders were nodding, clearly ready to set out and bring an end to the standoff. Echtalon stepped forward.

“There is only one change,” he announced. “I will join Faelin on the boats.”

There was no argument given. None of the commanders wanted someone of his seniority along with them lest he seize control in the midst of battle. In their minds, it would be much better for Faelin to have him. At least she seemed able to control him, to a point. Faelin knew them well enough to guess their thoughts, and nodded.

“So be it. You’ll be right beside me when we attack.”

Echtalon nodded. When this was over, she would receive her promotion. There was no question of ‘if’ the plan worked. Echtalon had complete confidence not just in the strategy but in the woman who had formed it. By the end of the day Arborshire would be in Aliri hands.

“Give us two hours to get the boats into position,” Faelin announced. “Then strike with everything that you’ve got.”

***

Rangir had insisted on taking the morning watch that day. He had no foresight of what was coming, he had simply gotten paranoid since that first night raid. Now with near-constant harassing from Aliri archers, he felt certain that something bigger would come at some unexpected time. Dawn was when sentries were at their least alert, so Rangir chose to lend his aid then. It had made sense the night before, but now as the sun began to climb over distant mountains he had begun to regret the choice, as most sentries did. It was going to be a hot day, he realised. Even without the sun he was sweating, and he found himself praying for rain. He’d never done that before.

He stopped when he heard the distant sound of marching feet. A glance at another sentry told him that he wasn’t imagining it. Stepping over to his comrade, he whispered,

“Raise everyone but do it quietly. Send a runner to Ertas.”

“Sir.” The sentry headed for the camp and began shaking the sleeping men. They were disciplined enough to respond quickly, even with more than a few mumbled curses. It only took a few minutes for the ranks to form in almost silence, and Rangir watched as the other companies began to follow their example. Ertas appeared next to him as the first Aliri appeared in the distance. This was no spoiling attack like the first time, they quickly realised. The last attack had consisted of two hundred men. This was starting to look like more than three times that number. They exchanged a nervous glance.

“Makes you wish for orcs,” Ertas murmured, and Rangir nodded. The regimental commander straightened and said, louder this time, “Hold the line, Rangir. Arborshire has to hold.”

“You can count on us, sir,” Rangir replied, but as he watched the Aliri force grow he doubted his own words. He wasn’t ready for this. But then, who was?

As the Aliri marched on, he could feel the tension among his men. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then called out,

“Men of Svaleta, you have faced the Aliri and won. We stopped them over and over. You are the superior of any elf that stands against us. We will hold this line, we will keep them out of Arborshire. This battle is ours.”

Even as he spoke, he wished those two Narandir elves hadn’t departed after giving their message. He could have used that Forest’s power right about now. His men seemed to stand straighter, though, and that was something to celebrate. His archers were at the ready, and he glanced over at the rest of the regiment. They were standing strong, eyes locked on the Aliri. He saw the runners standing by the fire trenches and prayed that they wouldn’t be needed. This had to be the main attack. If they broke the back of the Aliri force here, then victory would be theirs. Worse things are coming for you. He couldn’t help but think of the elf’s words. What could be worse than this?

The Svaletans’ eyes were naturally fixed on the four regiments quickly marching towards them. This was exactly what Faelin had counted on. Even those forces set around the bridge were focused on the distant fields. The regiments had been deployed to ensure it. Three companies were advancing from the north to strike the main Svaletan defences, while the other two would hit from the east to draw more attention away from Faelin’s company approaching from the west. If her prediction was correct, the Svaletans would shift to face the eastern threat, leaving the bridge almost unguarded. Her plan depended on luck, but most did even if the commander didn’t admit it.

Her luck held. Seeing the eastern attack forming, the second Svaletan commander shifted his three companies away from the bridge to stop the flanking movement. The advantage to the Svaletan position was that there was no way to advance stealthily. Everything the Aliri did was visible. They could imagine no surprise attack from the west, not in any sort of timeframe that would affect his deployments.

The northern attack began with a volley of arrows fired from the longer-ranged Aliri bows. The Svaletans formed their shield walls, blocking the worst of the steel rain that seemed unending as the elves kept firing as they marched. The effect was more psychological than physical. Few lives were lost, but it ensured Aliri initiative won the first stage of the fight. No Svaletan advanced in the face of the archery assault. All their effort was placed on maintaining their defence and staying alive. By the time the Aliri were in position to launch their main strike the Svaletans were mentally drained by a solid twenty minutes of bunkering down. Ertas was the first to give the order to reorient the shield walls. The first two ranks stayed in place with shields stacked two high, with spearmen standing in place, their weapons sticking through to impale any elves who charged forward. Behind this first layer, the Svaletans stood with swords drawn, ready to repulse anyone who made it through the shields. Archers began firing blind, taking their toll among the Aliri, but not enough to change the course of the battle. With an ear-splitting war cry, the elves charged.

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By now the eastern attack had begun, following the same strategy as the northern strike. Sheltering beneath their shields, few of the Svaletans looked back towards the river. Those who did and saw Faelin’s boats were ignored by their commanders as they struggled to maintain order. So Faelin’s company landed unopposed and quickly advanced on the distracted eastern defences as the land-based companies broke off their archery strike and charged. Caught between two unexpected fronts, the eastern defences would not hold.

Rangir’s shield wall repulsed the first Aliri surge. He could almost feel the impact as dozens of bodies smashed against the steel barrier, trying to find the one or two weak points made by particularly tired soldiers. They found none, and Rangir breathed a little easier even as his archers fired off another volley. He glanced over at Ertas, who nodded and called out,

“Prepare to break!”

They weren’t wasting any time, but Rangir knew that this was crucial. Their job was to keep the Aliri away from the bridge. If they simply huddled behind their wall, then all the elves had to do was circle around and find another angle. They had to tie them down in a brawl. Such was the brutal calculus of war – the greater risk brought the greater reward, at least in theory.

Rangir echoed the order, and his company braced for the coming onslaught. His archers returned their bows to the hooks on their quivers and retrieved their swords. They trained endlessly for this drill – the front ranks would drop the shields and duck out of the way while the second line would leap forwards to catch the enemy as they attempted to pour through the new gaps. The first rank would hit the onrushing enemy in the flank and in the confusion they would theoretically gain the advantage.

Theoretically. Rangir remembered Narandir, remembered the creatures crawling over the shield walls in their desperation to kill. He shuddered and forced the memory from his mind. Focus on the now.

“Break!” Ertas screamed out. Rangir and his fellow company commanders repeated the order, and the chaos began. His shield bearers followed the procedure exactly, spinning away to reveal the oncoming horde of Aliri. The second rank stepped forward to meet them, and the two forces collided in a violent tangle of steel and flesh. Rangir had hoped to stand back and direct his company’s movements, but there were simply too many Aliri for that. He pushed forward amongst the archers and led them to reinforce the right flank.

Echtalon and Faelin led the river company as they smashed into the rear of the Svaletans’ eastern defences. It was a massacre. Pressed on both sides by overwhelming numbers, the Svaletan companies began to crumble as they struggled to redeploy to fight two opposite flanks at once. Echtalon let out his fury as he mowed down every Svaletan that crossed his path. Not far away, Faelin was proving her expertise with a bow as she unleashed a rain of steel on the enemy defences. Victory seemed certain until the ground shook.

The first tremor knocked Rangir off his feet and brought an end to the fighting in his area. Both Aliri and Svaletan alike froze and glanced around as a second tremor ran through the earth. Rangir pulled himself to his feet and glanced over at an Aliri swordsman standing nearby. The elf looked back with confusion on his face. I should be killing you, Rangir thought, but something felt wrong. He was still looking around when the ground fell away and the Aliri dropped out of sight. Rangir ran forward but froze when he heard the man scream in terror. He readied his sword and took a step forward when the screams ended in a sickening gurgle. His eyes were locked on the hole, but his mind registered more screams from across the battlefield, confirming that this wasn’t isolated. He froze again as something emerged with a low growl. It was almost human, but bloated, almost translucent, and covered with open sores. Its mouth was full of sharpened teeth that dripped with the blood of the Aliri who had fallen into the hole. Rangir cursed and braced himself as the creature set its sights on him and charged. Rangir dodged out of the way and slashed it across its back. It snarled and turned to face him. Not a single drop of blood fell from the open wound, and Rangir frowned. What is this thing? It let out a roar and leapt forward. He didn’t have a chance to react as it tackled him to the ground. He cursed and rammed his blade into its neck and head until it went still. With a groan, Rangir pulled himself to his feet and looked around. Whatever chaos had characterised the battlefield earlier now looked like a well-orchestrated parade. More of the pale creatures were crashing through the Svaletan and Aliri ranks, crushing and tearing everything in their way.

“Rangir!” He spun around as Ertas dropped to a knee beside him. “I think we owe those elves an apology.”

Rangir grunted. Worse things are coming for you. Apparently that had been far more accurate than he had expected. “What the hell are these things?”

“That’s beyond me. We need to regroup, form some sort of defence.”

They both knew that it was too late for that. Even as they spoke, more holes appeared and unleashed the monstrosities. Rangir didn’t wait for Ertas to give any order. Looking around what was left of his company, he yelled,

“Pull back! Back to the river!”

He turned back to Ertas just as a blurred shape knocked him to the ground. Rangir slashed his sword through the creature’s neck and pushed it off Ertas, but it was too late. His commander was dead, his face a bloody pulp where the creature’s teeth had ripped through his soft flesh. Rangir cursed and ran for the water. They had to get out of the kill zone, whatever it took.

***

Faelin and Echtalon ended up back-to-back as the creatures broke through both armies, leaving shattered corpses scattered in their wake. This was clearly no Svaletan conjuring, but that was the limit of their understanding.

“We need to pull everyone back. Get back to the boats,” Faelin shouted. “We have no more control here.”

Echtalon slapped her on the shoulder as confirmation, then turned his attention to one of the creatures that was aiming for him. Faelin sent two arrows into its chest, and Echtalon decapitated it with a blow that took all of his might. There were too many of these things for their forces to resist. A roar made Echtalon spin to see another one rising up beside him, whipping up a hand that ended in four-inch claws. Before he could react, the face contorted and it collapsed, revealing a Svaletan soldier standing behind it. He lowered his sword and said,

“We need to get out of this place. This war is over for us.”

Faelin and Echtalon traded a glance, then the general nodded. “We have boats.”

“Too slow,” the Svaletan told him. “The bridge. Go.”

They weren’t the only group to attempt to escape, but they were protected by the surviving Aliri, who recognised their commanders and intercepted many of the creatures that tried to pursue them. Their luck ran out as they reached the bridge. The ground fell away before them, and the trio stopped as more of the beasts arrayed themselves around them. They braced themselves, ready for the onslaught that they knew would be the end.

“Take the right,” Echtalon whispered to Faelin. Turning to the Svaletan he said, “Go left. I’ll take the centre.”

The Svaletan grunted but turned in the right direction at least. Echtalon knew that there were simply too many of the creatures for the three of them to survive, but he wasn’t going to die without a fight.

A horn blast cut through the air, and a horseman burst through the ring of monsters, his sword cleaving through their pale flesh. To Echtalon’s surprise, it was an elf, but not Aliri, about fifty years old by his first guess. Behind him was a second horseman, older, carrying an axe that smashed in the skulls of his targets as he circled the three of them.

“Rangir! Where is Ertas?” The older elf yelled.

“Gone,” the Svaletan answered. “We need to get out of here.”

The younger elf screamed as one of the creatures seized his leg and pulled him to the ground. Before anyone could react, he was dead, impaled by the monster’s lethal claws.

Echtalon didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto the free horse, closely followed by Faelin. The Svaletan – Rangir – joined the other elf, and they raced across the bridge before they could be trapped. Echtalon only took one glance back. Both armies were in disarray from the onslaught, but he could see individual men and elves who had escaped and were running as fast as they could to get away from the beasts.

“Where are we going?” Faelin called out. Rangir didn’t turn to them, his face set in stone as he answered,

“To Narandir.”