The Kinslayer Wars

by Douglas Niles

  He looked at the reserve force, consisting of the five thousand elves who had marched with Kencathedrus. Even at ease, they lounged in the sun in neat ranks across the grassy meadows. A formation of Wildrunners, Kith reflected, would have collected in the areas of shade.

  The teacher nodded, still skeptical. He looked across the front, toward the trees that screened the enemy army. “Do you know their deployments?” asked Kencathedrus.

  “No.” Kith admitted. “We’ve been shut off all day. I’d fall back if I could.

  They’ve had too much time to prepare an attack, and I’d love to set those preparations to waste. Your old lesson comes to mind: ‘Don’t let the enemy have the luxury of following his plan’.”

  Kencathedrus nodded, and Kith nearly growled in frustration as he continued.

  “But I can’t move back. These trees are the last cover between here and Sithelbec. There’s not so much as a ditch to hide behind if I abandon this position.”

  All he could do was to deploy a company of skirmishers well to each flank of his position and hope they could provide him with warning of any sudden flanking thrust.

  It was a night of restlessness throughout the camp, despite the exhaustion of the weary troops. Few of them slept for more than a few hours, and many campfires remained lit well past midnight as elves gathered around them and talked of past centuries, of their families – of anything but the terrible destiny that seemed to await them on the morrow.

  Dew crept across the land in the darkest hours of night, becoming a heavy mist that flowed thickly through the meadows and twisted around the trunks in the groves. With it came a chill that woke every elf, and thus they spent the last hours of darkness.

  They heard the drums before dawn, a far-off rattle that began with shocking precision from a thousand places at once. Darkness shrouded the woods, and the mists of the humid night drifted like spirits among the nervous elves, further obscuring visibility.

  Gradually the dark mist turned to pale blue. As the sky lightened overhead, the cadence of a great army’s advance swelled around the elves. The Wildrunners held to their pikes, or steadied their prancing horses. They checked their bowstrings and their quivers, and made certain that the bucklings on their armor held secure. Inevitably the blue light gave way to a dawn of vague, indistinct shapes, still clouded by the haze of fog.

  The beat of the drums grew louder. The mist drifted across the fields, leaving even nearby clumps of trees nothing more than gray shadows. Louder still grew the precise tapping, yet nothing could be seen of the approaching force.

  “There – coming through the pines!”

  “I see them – over that way.”

  “Here they come – from the ravine!”

  Elves shouted, pointing to spots all along their front where shapes began to take form in the mist. Now they could see great, rippling lines of movement, as if waves rolled through the earth itself. The large, prancing figures of horsemen became apparent, several waves of them flexing among the ranks of infantry.

  Abruptly, as suddenly as it had started, the drumming ceased. The formations of the human army appeared as darker shapes against the yellow grass and the gray sky. For a moment, time on the field, and perhaps across all the plains, across all of Ansalon, stood still. The warriors of the two armies regarded each other across a quarter-mile of ground. Even the wind died, and the mist settled low to the earth.

  Then a shout arose from one of the humans and was echoed by fifty thousand voices. Swords bashed against shields, while trumpets blared and horses whinnied in excitement and terror.

  In the next instant, the human wave surged forward, the roaring sound wave of the attack preceding it with terrifying force.

  Now brassy notes rang from elven trumpets. Pikes rattled as their wielders set their weapons. The five hundred horses of the Wildrunner cavalry nickered and kicked nervously.

  Kith-Kanan steadied Kijo. From his position in the center of the line, he had a good view of the advancing human tide. His bodyguards, increased to twelve riders today, stood in a semicircle behind him. He had insisted that they not obstruct his view of the field.

  For a moment, he had a terrifying vision of the elven line’s collapse, the human horde sweeping across the plains and forests beyond like a swarm of insects. He shuddered in the grip of the fear, but then the swirl of events grabbed and held his attention.

  The first shock of the charge came in the form of two thousand swordsmen, brandishing shields and howling madly. Dressed in thick leather jerkins, they raced ahead of their metal-armored comrades, toward the block of elven pikes standing firm in the center of Kith’s line.

  The clash of swordsmen with the tips of those pikes was a horrible scene. The steel-edged blades of the pikes pierced the leather with ease as scores of humans impaled themselves from the force of the charge. A cheer went up from the Wildrunners as the surviving swordsmen turned to flee, leaving perhaps a quarter of their number writhing and groaning on the ground, at the very feet of the elves who had wounded them.

  Now the focus shifted to the left, where human longbowmen advanced against an exposed portion of the Wildrunner line. Kith’s own archers fired back, sending a deadly shower against the press of men. But the human arrows, too, found marks among the tightly packed ranks, and elven blood soon flowed thick in the trampled grass.

  Kith nudged Kijo toward the archers, watching volleys of arrows arc and cross through the air. The humans rushed forward and the elves stood firm. The elven commander urged his steed faster, sensing the imminent clash.

  Then the human advance wavered and slowed. Kith saw Parnigar, standing beside the archers.

  “Now!” cried the sergeant-major, gesturing toward a platoon of elves standing beside him. A few dozen in number, these elves wore swords at their sides but had no weapons in their hands. It was their bare hands that they raised, fingers extended toward the rushing humans.

  A bright flash of light made Kith blink. Magic missiles, crackling blasts of sorcerous power, exploded from Parnigar’s platoon. A whole line of men dropped, slain so suddenly that members of the rear ranks tripped and tumbled over the bodies. Again the light flashed, and another volley of magic ripped into the humans.

  Some of those struck screamed aloud, crying for their gods or for their mothers. Others stumbled back, panicked by the sorcerous attack. A whole company, following the decimated formation, stopped in its tracks and then turned to flee. In another moment, the mass of human bowmen streamed away, pursued by another volley of the keen elven arrows.

  Yet even as this attack failed, Kith sensed a crisis on his left. A line of human cavalry, three thousand snorting horses bearing armored lancers, thundered through the rapidly thinning mist. The charge swept forward with a momentum that made the previous attacks look like parade-ground drills.

  Before the horsemen waited a line of elves with swords and shields, soft prey for the thundering riders. To the right and left of them, the sharp stakes jutted forward, proof against the cavalry attack. But the gaps in the line had to be held by troops, and now these elves faced approaching doom.

  “Archers – give cover,” Kith shouted as Kijo raced across the lines. Companies of elven longbow wheeled and released their missiles, scoring hits among the horsemen. But still the charge pounded forward.

  “Fall back! Take cover in the trees!” he shouted to the captains of the longsword companies, for there was no other choice.

  Kith cursed himself in frustration, realizing that the human commander had forced him to commit his pikes against the initial charge. Now came the horses, and his companies of pikes, the only true defense against a wave of cavalry, were terribly out of position.

  Then he stared in astonishment. As more arrows fell among the riders, suddenly the horsemen wheeled about, racing away from the elven position before the defenders could follow Kith’s orders to withdraw. The astonished elven swordsmen watched the horses and the riders flee, pursued by a desultory shower of arrows. The
elven defenders could only wonder at the fortuitous turn of events.

  In the back of Kith’s mind, something whispered a warning. This had to be a trick, he told himself. Certainly the arrows hadn’t been thick and deadly enough to halt that awe-inspiring charge. Less than fifty riders, and no more than two dozen horses, lay in the field before them. His scouts had given him a good count of the human cavalry. Though he had not been able to study these, he suspected he had seen only about half the force.

  *

  “Our men fall back as you ordered,” reported Suzine, her eyes locked upon the violent images in her mirror. The glass rested on a table, and she sat before it – table, woman, and mirror, all encased in a narrow shroud of canvas, to keep the daylight from the crucial seeing device. She never lost view of the elven commander who sat straight and proud in his saddle, every inch the warrior of House Royal. Behind her, pacing in taut excitement, General Giarna looked over her shoulder.

  “Excellent! And the elves – what do you see of them?”

  “They stand firm, my lord.”

  “What?” General Giarna’s voice barked violently against her, filling the small canvas shelter where they observed the battle. “You’re wrong! They must attack!”

  Suzine flinched. The image in the mirror – a picture of long ranks of elven warriors, holding their positions, failing to pursue the bait of the human retreat – wavered slightly.

  She felt the general’s rage explode, and then the image faded. Suzine saw only her own reflection and the hideous face of the man behind her.

  *

  “My lord! Let us hit them now, while they fall back in confusion!” Kith turned to see Kencathedrus beside him. His old teacher rode a prancing mare, and the weariness of the march from Silvanost was totally gone from his face. Instead, the warrior’s eyes burned, and his gauntleted fist clung tightly to the hilt of his sword. “It has to be a trick,” Kith countered. “We didn’t drive them away that easily.”

  “For the gods’ sakes, Kith-Kanan – these are humans! The cowardly scum will run from a loud noise! Let’s follow up and destroy them!”

  “No!” Kith’s voice was harsh, full of command, and Kencathedrus’s face whitened with frustration.

  “We do not face an ordinary general,” Kith-Kanan continued, feeling that he owed further explanation to the one who had girded his first sword upon him.

  “He hasn’t failed to surprise me yet, and I know we have seen but a fraction of his force.”

  “But if they fly they will escape! We must pursue!” Kencathedrus couldn’t help himself.

  “The answer is no. If they are escaping, so be it. If they attempt to pull us out of our position to trap us, they shall not.”

  Another roar thundered across the fields before them, and more humans came into view, running toward the elves with all manner of weaponry. Great companies of longbowmen readied their missiles, while bearded axemen raised their heavy blades over their heads. Spearmen charged with gleaming points extended toward the enemy, while swordsmen banged their swords against their shields, advancing at a steady march.

  Kencathedrus, shocked by the fresh display of human might and vigor, looked at the general with respect. “You knew,” he said wonderingly.

  Kith-Kanan shrugged and shook his head. “No – I simply suspected. Perhaps because I had a good teacher.”

  The older elf growled, appreciating the remark but annoyed with himself.

  Indeed, they both realized that, had the elves advanced when Kencathedrus had desired, they would have been swiftly overrun, vulnerable in the open field.

  Kencathedrus rejoined his reserve company, and Kith-Kanan immersed himself in the fight. Thousands of humans and elves clashed along the line, and hundreds died. Weapons shattered against shields, and bones shattered beneath blades. The long morning gave way to afternoon, but the passing of time meant nothing to the desperate combatants, for whom each moment could be their last.

  The tide of battle surged back and forth. Companies of humans turned and fled, many of them before their charging ranks even reached the determined elves. Others hacked and slew their way into the defenders, and occasionally a company of elves gave way. Then the humans poured through the gap like the surging surf, but always Kith-Kanan was there, slashing with his bloody sword, urging his elven lancers into the breach.

  Wave after wave of humans surged madly across the trampled field, hurling themselves into the elves as if to shatter them with the sheer momentum of their charges. As soon as one company broke, one regiment fell back depleted and demoralized, another block of steel-tipped humanity lunged forward to take its place.

  The Wildrunners fought until total exhaustion gripped each and every warrior, and then they fought some more. Their small, mobile companies banded together to form solid lines, shifted to deflect each new charge, and flowed sideways to fill gaps caused by their fallen or routed comrades. Always those plunging horses backed them up, and each time, as the line faltered, the elven cavalry thundered against the breakthrough, driving it back in disorder.

  Those five hundred riders managed to seal every breach. By the time the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, Kith noticed a slackening in the human attacks. One company of swordsmen stumbled away, and for once there was no fresh formation to take their place in the attack. The din of combat seemed to fade somewhat, and then he saw another formation – a group of axemen – turn and lumber away from the fight. More and more of the humans broke off their attacks, and soon the great regiments of Ergoth streamed across the field, back toward their own lines.

  Kith slumped wearily in his saddle, staring in suspicion at the fleeing backs of the soldiers. Could it be over? Had the Wildrunners won? He looked at the sun – about four good hours of daylight remained. The humans wouldn’t risk an encounter at night, he knew. Elven nightvision was one of the great proofs of the elder race’s superiority over its shorter-lived counterparts. Yet certainly the hour was not the reason for the humans’ retreat, not when they had been pressing so forcefully all along the line.

  A weary Parnigar approached on foot. Kith had seen the scout’s horse cut down beneath him during the height of the battle. The general recognized his captain’s lanky walk, though Parnigar’s face and clothes were caked in mud and the blood of his slain enemies.

  “We’ve held them, sir,” he reported, his face creasing into a disbelieving smile. Immediately, however, he frowned and shook his head. “Some three or four hundred dead, though. The day was not without its cost.”

  Kith looked at the exhausted yet steady ranks of his Wildrunners. The pikemen held their weapons high, the archers carried bows at the ready, while those with swords honed their blades in the moments of silence and respite.

  The formations still arrayed in full ranks, as if fresh and unblooded, but their ranks were shorter now. Organized in neat rows behind each company, covered with blankets, lay a quiet grouping of motionless forms.

  At least the dead can rest, he thought, feeling his own weariness. He looked again to the humans, seeing that they still fled in disorder. Many of them had reached the tree line and were disappearing into the sheltering forest.

  “My lord! My lord! Now is the time. You must see that.”

  Kith turned to see Kencathedrus galloping up to him. The elven veteran reined in beside the general and gestured at the fleeing humans.

  “You may be right.” Kith-Kanan had to agree. He saw the five thousand elves of Silvanost gathered in trim ranks, ready to advance the moment he gave the word. This was the chance to deliver a coup de grace that could send the enemy reeling all the way back to Caergoth.

  “Quickly, my lord – they’re getting away.” Impatiently, his gray brows bristling, Kencathedrus indicated the ragged humans running in small clumps, like sheep, toward the sheltering woods in the distance.

  “Very well – advance and pursue! But have a care for your flanks!”

  *

  “They must come after us now.” General Giarn
a’s horse twisted and pitched among the ranks of retreating humans, many of whom were bleeding or limping, supported by the shoulders of their sturdier comrades. Indeed, the Army of Ergoth had paid a hideous price for the daylong attacks, all of which were mere preliminaries to his real plan of battle.

  The general paid no attention to the human suffering around him. Instead, his dark eyes fixed with a malevolent stare on the elven positions across the mud-spattered landscape. No movement yet – but they must advance. He felt this with a certainty that filled his dark heart with a bloodthirsty anticipation.

  For a moment, he cast a sharp glance to the rear, toward the tiny tent that sheltered Suzine and her mirror. The gods should damn that bitch! How, in the heat of the fight, could her powers fail her? Why now – today?

  His brow narrowed in suspicion, but he had no time now to wonder about the unreliability of his mistress. She had been a valuable tool, and it would be regrettable if that tool were no longer at his disposal.

  Perhaps, as she had claimed, the tension of the great conflict had proven too distracting, too overpowering for her to concentrate. Or maybe the general’s looming presence had frightened her. In fact, General Giarna wanted to frighten her, just as he wanted to frighten everyone under his command.

  However, if that fear was enough to disrupt her powers of concentration, than Suzine’s usefulness might be seriously limited.

  No matter – at least for now. The battle could still be won by force of arms.

  The key was to make the elves believe that the humans were beaten.

  General Giarna’s pulse quickened then as he saw a line of movement across the field.

  *

  “Elves of Silvanost, advance!” The captain had already turned away from his commander. The reserve companies started forward at a brisk march, through the gaps in the spiked fence of the elven line. The companies of the Wildrunners, battered and weary, cleared the way for the attackers, whose gleaming spear points and shining armor stood out in stark contrast to the muddy, bloody mess around them. Nevertheless, the Wildrunners raised a hearty cheer as Kencathedrus led his troops into the attack. “On the double-charge!” His horse prancing eagerly beneath him, Kencathedrus brandished his sword and urged his complement forward. The troops needed no prodding. All day they had seen their fellow countrymen die at the hands of these rapacious savages, and now they had the chance to take vengeance.