by Doug Niles
“I do not try to mislead you into thinking that the fight will be easy, or the result certain. But you men of the Second Division have a sturdy palisade, and you know how well these walls of wood have served us over the last thirty years. Not once—remember that, not once—has an attacker breached the walls of a fortified elven camp.
“But we will let them try, my bold elves; we will let them try. And we will kill them at the borders of the palisade. We will let their force break itself on our ramparts. And when they are broken, then we will sweep out with steel and blood.
“And only then, my elves, will the First be avenged.”
There was no cheering following his speech, nor did Porthios expect to hear any. But he could tell by the looks on the faces that his warriors had taken his words to heart. They would fight with confidence and fury and, the gods willing, the First Division would be avenged.
Two hours later, well after darkness had settled over the mist-shrouded island, the woods erupted with sounds of musical bells as the magical alarms set by the wizards were tripped by the approaching horde. Immediately Porthios sent his Qualinesti, whose griffons had been resting within the palisade, aloft. They had strict orders to keep alert for the dragon and to shower the creature with arrows if it appeared.
The Silvanesti of the Second Division took their posts along the walls, with two companies detached to watch the riverbank in case the attackers somehow found a way to slip around the barrier by water. The main defensive line consisted of archers on the ramparts and towers who would shower the attackers with deadly missiles and oil-soaked bundles of flaming rags. Steadfast swordsmen lined the entire inside of the wall. The palisade was made of stout tree trunks, but there were gaps of several inches between each pair of posts, and the elves had learned through experience that the enemy would press close to the wall in an attempt to get at the defenders. This very proximity would make the denizens vulnerable to elven counterattack through the gaps of the palisade.
The white moon, Lunitari, was waning but still more than half full, and though low in the western sky, she cast enough light to aid visibility. Porthios was fairly certain that the dragon wouldn’t be able to approach unseen. As an additional protection, he had posted a wizard atop each of the eight towers. They would cast spells to aid the defense on the ground, but were also charged with scanning the sky, through eyes magically charmed to detect invisible attackers.
Soon the clanging of the alarm bells gave way to the grunting and cursing of thousands of creatures. Tree limbs snapped, and heavy boots and taloned feet tromped loudly on the ground. The horde of island denizens broke from the woods a hundred paces from the palisade wall, and there they waited. Their numbers continued to swell as more and more of the beasts emerged from the woods, until it looked as though the clearing was fringed with a dark and deadly border.
“Stand to, there,” Porthios called to his elves from the wall top. “Don’t shoot until you’ve got a good target.”
“Aye, Marshal!” came a cheerful reply. “I’m going to pluck me an ogre eyeball!”
“Get one for me as well,” shouted General Bandial from a different tower. “I need something to wear under this patch.”
The elves raised a quick hurrah, and the commander was heartened by the evidence of his warriors’ high morale.
Stallyar remained on the ground, prancing and fluttering nervously in the center of the fortified shore. Porthios knew that this fight would be won or lost on the ground, so he had decided to stay here among the Silvanesti, at least for the time being. The Qualinesti, two hundred strong, were all flying overhead, and he just had to rely on them to prevent the big green dragon from getting into the camp.
The mass of creatures emerging from the woods had grown to a horde by now, spreading in an arc to face approximately half of the total length of the palisade. With a rhythmic tromping of heavy feet, the ogres began to count a cadence that would build their excitement and inevitably compel them to make a charge at the elven camp. Porthios had seen and heard this many times before, but the steady beat and rising volume still brought a queasiness to his stomach. He wished they’d get the preliminaries over with and start the damned fight.
The draconians started to hoot, hiss, and jeer. Their batlike wings, insufficient for true flight but able to hasten their speed in a charge, flexed and fanned, giving the moonlit horde a shifting, unreal quality, as if the monsters were not individual creatures, but parts of a blanket that was being fluttered horizontally in a light breeze. All the noises increased, until it seemed as though the forest itself was screeching and stomping at the elves. Finally the warlike sounds reached a crescendo, holding at this frenetic pitch for several taut heartbeats.
And then, as if a dam had burst, the entire mob spewed forward from the fringe of the trees. Some draconians burst into the lead, galloping on all fours, using their wings to propel them as fast as a galloping horse. These were dangerous, Porthios knew, for their momentum—coupled with the sharp, gripping talons on their hands and feet—could help these creatures to scale all the way to the top of the wall in the first impetus of their charge. His veteran elves had seen this before, however, and he noted that the archers along the top of the wall all had their swords close at hand.
The ground shook from the impact of heavy boots, and the impossibly loud noise seemed to swell even more as the horde closed rapidly on the camp. Arrows began to dart out from the elven positions as archers picked off the leading draconians. Here the natures of the magical creatures worked in the elves’ favor. The slain kapak draconians dissolved into pools of caustic acid, while the occasional bozaks among their number died in explosions of sparks, smoke, and fire. These fatalities inevitably created obstacles, slight falters in the momentum of the thundering charge.
And even if a draconian wasn’t killed outright, the impact of a steel-headed missile from fifty paces away was enough to break the pace of the creature’s charge, to send it rolling and tumbling to the ground. As often as not, the wounded monsters were quickly trampled by the mob rushing along right behind.
The survivors among these first draconians, still racing at breakneck speed, used their wings and their powerful legs to fling themselves into the air. They crashed heavily into the timbers of the palisade, but the sturdy posts held. Some of these attackers were felled by sword thrusts through the fence, cuts that gouged into exposed bellies and necks. Others, however, leapt too high to be struck from the ground, and now they scrambled up the rough posts, clawing to climb over the spiked parapet at the top.
But now the elves on the ramparts had their swords out, hacking and stabbing at the scaly, crocodilian faces. One elf was seized by the arms and, clutched in the grip of a dying draconian, pulled over the wall to tumble into the frenzied creatures now smashing into the base of the parapet. A couple of the winged monsters actually scrambled over the top of the wall, but these were quickly cut down by the elves manning the upper parapet. The rest of the beasts were knocked back, bleeding, to tumble into the chaotic press below.
The elves on the towers maintained a steady rain of arrows into the horde, and now, with the last of the first wave repulsed, the archers atop the walls again took up their bows. There was no pausing to aim now; the attackers were so closely packed that any arrow sent downward was likely to plant itself in monstrous flesh.
On the ground, killing frenzy raged on both sides of the parapet. The elves stabbed with their long swords, cutting any creature that pressed close to the barrier. Some ogres wielded huge spears, and they used these with grim effect, sticking the long weapons through the gaps in the fence and twisting them about to gouge into any defenders within reach. Many elves tumbled back, bleeding, but others seized the spears behind their crude iron heads and tried to wrestle them away from the brutes.
In places, the wall of posts rocked back and forth, straining under the impact of thousands of bodies. Some of the elven archers on the rampart staggered under the shifting footing, and a few fell
back into the encampment. But the Second Division had done its work well, planting the timbers deep, and nowhere did the palisade show signs of imminent collapse.
The marshal risked a quick look around the battlefield. There was still no sign of the green dragon, and the two companies he had posted at the waterfront were, with commendable discipline, paying careful attention to their duties instead of watching the distraction of the great battle raging behind them. Likewise, the elves posted on the large portion of the wall that wasn’t currently under attack kept their eyes on the dark forest instead of turning to watch the carnage occurring on their flank. Stallyar, near the base of the commander’s tower, had settled down, though he kept his eyes, unblinking, on his rider. Overhead, the Qualinesti still circled, some shooting into the battle, but most of them keeping their eyes alert for any sign of the great green dragon.
Looking back to the battle line, Porthios saw that the pace of the arrow fire was slackening. Many of the archers had nearly empty quivers.
“More arrows! Get them up to the walls,” shouted Porthios to the elves of his reserve company.
Immediately fresh ammunition was passed up the ladders, and the desultory barrage once again became a furious shower. Everywhere along the base of the wall lay dead and dying monsters, though the living took no notice of the casualties, trampling them mercilessly as they fought for positions adjacent to the palisade. Though Porthios had seen it before, he was amazed to witness ogres with huge clubs, weapons that were far too big and clumsy to fit through the gaps in the palisade, and draconians armed with nothing more than the talons on their clawed hands pressed eagerly up to the fence. There, easy meat for elven swords, they were cut, wounded, and killed.
Screams of alarm pulled the marshal’s attention around to the rear, and he was stunned to see the huge green dragon tearing through one of his companies on the riverbank. Like some horrible apparition from the deep, it was draped in muck and weeds from the river. The sinuous form scattered a glittering cascade, spraying droplets of muddy water as it tore and clawed and bit through a dozen helpless elves. A massive cloud of green murk drifted through the palisade, and Porthios groaned at the knowledge that many of his warriors must have died in that first, lethal exhalation.
He knew that green dragons were excellent swimmers. Why hadn’t he thought of that obvious tactic? The elven commander was infuriated by his own carelessness, at this evidence of one more mistake that had cost lives among his loyal elves.
The Qualinesti on their griffons were diving now, sending dozens of arrows showering into the great wyrm. Rearing high on its rear legs, the dragon spewed another blast of gas into the air, dropping many of the fliers right out of the sky. Lashing with its foreclaws, striking like a snake with its head on its long, supple neck, the creature ripped other elves from their saddles or knocked griffons to the ground, each time leaving a trailing plume of fluttering white feathers.
And then there was another alarm, and Porthios saw that a bare stretch of wall was faced by a new attack. This force, a band that had been held back from the main attack with admirable discipline, was made up entirely of draconians. The creatures raced across the stumpy field, hurling themselves up the palisade with flapping wings. At the same time, more of the creatures spiraled down from the sky to land atop the parapet. These were sivaks, the marshal was certain, the one kind of draconian capable of true flight.
Now his reserve was entangled by the sudden rush of the dragon, and the weary troops along the palisade were still engaged by the original attack. He was appalled to see elf after elf knocked from the parapet by the sivaks, who carried massive, jagged-edged swords that they wielded with both of their hands clutching the hilts. Other draconians swarmed up and over the wall, while elves on the ground struggled up the ladders to reinforce their comrades overhead. But now, for a change, it was the monsters who held the higher position, and the elves found themselves battling up narrow ladders, precariously balanced as they tried to wield their swords against the hulking creatures overhead. One after another of the elves was bashed from the ladders to plummet hard onto the unforgiving ground.
Porthios absorbed the changes in the battle over the course of ten or twelve heartbeats, and then he knew what he had to do. Sliding down the ladder from the tower rampart, he whistled for Stallyar and saw the griffon race over to meet him. Leaping into the saddle, the marshal was shouting orders as the creature lifted him into the air.
“Elves on the towers—give them support over there!” he shouted, directing the archers to shoot at the draconians who had claimed a portion of the wall top. He glanced over and saw that the dragon was still wreaking terrible havoc in the camp, but that the Qualinesti on their griffons had circled up and away and were seriously distracting the creature with their vexing missile fire.
Stallyar knew where his master was needed, and as soon as he was twenty feet off the ground, he flew on a level course directly at the big sivak who seemed to be directing the battle on top of the wall. The monster looked up briefly, jaws gaping wide as it saw the vengeful griffon, and then the crushing beak tore a great gouge in the draconian’s scalp. Stallyar’s eagle talons picked the screaming creature up and dumped it over the wall,
The griffon came to light on the narrow parapet, and Porthios slid over his mount’s tail. The silver long sword reached out almost of its own will to cut the arm off of a charging sivak, and on the backstroke, the elf chopped the draconian hard to the side, knocking the dying creature onto the ground inside the palisade. There the body burst into oily flame, the dying pyrotechnics of a sivak.
More draconians closed in, and the sword became a whirling blur of bright steel and slick blood. Behind him, Porthios heard the griffon crowing savagely and knew that Stallyar was rending creatures limb from limb with his beak. Back to back, the two stood in the middle of the parapet and dared any of the attackers to close with them.
Despite the gory wounds scored by his elven long sword, many of the draconians accepted the dare. One after another, they lunged along the narrow platform, stabbing, clawing, seeking to drag him down. The marshal’s arm grew numb from wielding his weapon, but his mind was clouded by a battle haze that banished any thoughts of fatigue, of despair. He lunged, cut, and parried, stepping inexorably forward and driving the press of draconians back. Taloned hands reached for him, and he sliced through scales, laying flesh open to the bone. Jaws snapped, and his blade whipped downward, carving nostrils, gouging eyes, even hacking right through skulls, cutting into wicked brains. His face, his hands, and his arms were scorched by the flames spouting from these dying monsters, but always there were more ready to lunge over their fallen comrades, eager to attack and kill.
A massive sivak stood in his path, wings flexing like a great battle cloak. The draconian wielded a huge sword, and it brought the weapon straight down, like an axeman trying to split a solid stump. Desperately Porthios raised his sword, blocking the blow with a clang of steel that echoed across the battlefield. The force of the attack numbed his arm, but when the sivak pulled back for another strike, the elf darted with serpentine quickness, driving his bloody blade into the sivak’s belly. The draconian howled in anguish even as flames crackled around the fringes of its body, and as it died and burned, the marshal kicked it off of the parapet and lunged forward, still seeking new foes.
When at last the draconians started to back away, to see that there was no point in attacking this infuriated elf, it was Porthios who carried the attack forward. On his own, he charged, swinging his blade with an apparent wildness that frightened even the savage denizens of the nightmare island. Only the elven marshal knew that the wildness was a sham, that each cut was carefully calculated to injure and kill his foes, and yet leave the elf in position to recover quickly, to insure that he didn’t leave himself open to any daring retaliation.
More elves were coming from the towers now or pressing up the ladders, and slowly the parapet was being reclaimed by the elves of the Second Division. I
t was the draconians inside the wall who were being sorely pressed, finally bunched into little pockets here and there. Even the sivaks, with their mighty two-handed swords, could not hold the onslaught of elven steel at bay, and now they were too tightly packed to spread their wings and take to the sky. Most of them died, though a few hurled themselves back over the wall to limp and crawl toward the imagined safety of the woods.
With a look into the camp, Porthios saw the dragon disappear into the river, dark water closing over the sinuous tail with a slight splash. The ogres and their allies had withdrawn from the parapet, slinking back to the woods in admission of defeat. Many of the retreating denizens were limping or leaning on the arms and shoulders of comrades. The more badly injured lay among the corpses of their companions, a gory swath marking the base of the wall where the initial attack had slammed home.
As always, the sudden silence after battle seemed surreal to Porthios. He heard a scream from a wounded elf as the warrior was gingerly carried from the wall by his comrades. It was not truly silent, he realized as he heard the soft voices of elves asking each other how they had fared or inquiring if anyone had seen the fate of this or that bold warrior. The base of the parapet was a seething mass of dull sound as well, hellish with the pitiful moans of wounded draconians and ogres. Somewhere an elf called for his lady, the voice a bubbling gasp that ended in a sickening gurgle of blood.
Griffons began to land in the middle of the palisade, and Porthios saw that most of his Qualinesti had survived the battle. The healers in their silken shelters were busy with the wounded, but it saddened the marshal to see that many of the injured were being shunted off to the side, their injuries judged too serious to waste the limited powers of the elven clerics.
