by C A Oliver
“They are a dozen leagues east of us at least,” added Gelros, “though it is hard to tell. We will need a full day to reach the area, and only if we make haste.”
“This means we no longer need to find the track of Voryn dyl and his unit,” observed Curwë. “We now know where they are going. Let us head to the paths of the Chanun Mountains with all possible speed. That is where the army of Llymar is gathering.”
Leaving the cover of the forest’s edge, the four Elves came out onto the grass of Nyn Ernaly’s wild meadows. It swelled like a green sea around the foothills of the Chanun Mountains’ northern range, dominated by Eïwal Vars Lepsy’s peak. On the vast plain, the air was hotter, thick with scents of burnt herbs as if, here, summer was still clinging firmly on. Now that they were travelling fully exposed through those barbarian lands, the anxious Elves progressed in single file, running like a pack of wolves following a fresh scent.
Gelros ran at the head of the pack. The summer sun climbed to high noon, and then dipped slowly towards the sea. During those long few hours, they hardly paused, fighting back against weariness by singing old songs of Essawylor, the war chants of the Northern Province. As the sunlight faded, their green-cloaked figures faded against the background of the empty landscape. A wind arose from the sea, as though urging them on to their destination. As shadows began to loom from the hilltops, still the four Elves ran on.
Finally, they reached the first stony dale of the ridged hills. The sun was now sinking into the evening mists above the sea. When night came, they decided to stop. More than ten leagues now lay between them and the edge the forest they had left at dawn. Though the moon was full, its light was weak, for eastern winds had brought dark, threatening clouds. The stars were fully veiled. The four Elves were alone in the wilderness.
*
They awoke the next day to a cloudy, stormy sky. Like every morning since they had left Mentollà, Curwë was up first, as if he did not need to rest at all. He urged his companions to start moving again, sensing they were getting close to their goal. The trees in the area were knotted and twisted, and the ground overrun with brambles, wild roses, reeds and nettles. No elder trees grew here.
“Let us head up that mountain pass. No army would take such a difficult route. We will be safe. Once we arrive at the top, we will have a dominant view of the valleys surrounding Eïwal Vars Lepsy’s peak,” Curwë said, pointing in the direction of a mountain, south of the ‘God’s Finger’ peak.
The four Elves looked around at the faint light of morning, and hope was restored in their hearts. They followed Curwë, climbing the steep mountain’s slope, scampering up narrow trails and scaling vertiginous rock walls. Gelros and Aewöl fashioned ladders out of their thin ropes to help them overcome some of the sheerest climbs. Finally, after considerable effort, they emerged at the top of the mountain. It had taken them a full day to reach this high ground, five thousand feet above sea level. The northerly wind brought a chill from the snowy Moka Kirini peaks to the south. The twin white tips appeared to float upon the low clouds. The four Elves halted again and prepared to weather another night away from home.
*
At sunrise, the sky was cloudless. A wind from the north had chased away the mountain mists, as if Eïwal Ffeyn were sending his blessings from his oceanic prison. As they looked down, the harsh light of the morning sun revealed a narrow valley, its sides almost vertical, cutting through the mountain range. In the large gorge was a small river which flowed swiftly towards the vast plain of Nyn Ernaly. To the north, they saw the vertical granite walls of Eïwal Vars Lepsy’s peak. The four Elves sat there for a moment, looking at the spectacular view before them in complete awe.
After some time, Gelros spotted movement further down in the valley, just where the river began to trickle down from the higher plateau towards the vast verdant plain. They immediately descended a few feet down the mountain, away from the peak where they would stand out starkly against the clear sky. There was silence between them after this development; the four Elves listened only to the wind whistling through the rocks. After a while, Curwë rejoiced.
“Finally, here are some good news.”
Curwë could see far into the distance. He had inherited the rare power from his Silver Elf forefathers, known for their farsighted vision. He described to the others what only his emerald eyes could see. From the tiny moving specs of shadow, he could make out, Curwë detailed with great precision an entire army, the army of Nellos. He saw cavaliers mounted on war horses, archers clad in bright chain mail, spearmen in straight formations and wagons drawn by oxen. All four of them could see smoke rising in large plumes down in the valley behind them. Curwë immediately understood.
“The army of Nellos is on the move. It is entering the gorge of Eïwal Vars Lepsy. But look far away to the other end of the valley! Its rear-guard seems stuck, the units in total disarray. I think it’s making an emergency retreat.”
“What do you mean?” asked Roquendagor, becoming impatient.
The tall knight disliked any situation he could not fully control. After observing a while longer, Curwë became sure of what he was seeing.
“The army of Nellos is under attack. It explains the smoke we see in the distance. They are seeking cover in the gorge of Eïwal Vars Lepsy. See how their archer units are positioned on either side of the valley. The rear-guard is fighting hard to gain the rest of the army time, to make sure their wagons can reach a safe haven. This is what is unfolding before us… The question now is: what force is pushing that large army into a dead end?”
“I see only one answer to this riddle,” said Aewöl, his only eye beginning to shine like a dark amethyst. “The army of Llymar has come.”
The four Elves set off down the northward slope with as much haste as the steep terrain allowed. The descent was long and dangerous. Time passed slowly. At last, they began to hear the distant yells of Nellos officers stationing their archers along the valley slopes. Deciding to be as careful as possible, the four Elves drew near the highest positions occupied by the soldiers. They finally reached a hideout a hundred yards uphill, a little above the defensive lines of the Westerners. Wrapped in their green cloaks, the four Elves lay on wet grass behind the protection of rocks.
Now the cries of the Nellos troops were ringing clearly over the hill. Those Men of great stature were organizing themselves calmly. Their exemplary composure belied the fact that their army was retreating. They looked like experienced warriors. Their faces were grim, their hair cut short. In their hands were their long bows. Each of them carried two quivers full of arrows. Their small shields were slung at their sides, painted with the symbol of Nellos: a setting sun upon the ocean. Their navy-blue cloaks were billowing in the wind, revealing the broad swords and daggers hanging at their belts. The archers were running around, carrying out their officers’ orders to build stone walls, behind which they would be able to find cover or hide.
None of them noticed the four Elves behind the rocks, watching them from above, barely a few dozen yards up the hill. The archers had almost finished taking their defensive positions when two formidable riders appeared, each leading a unit of elite guards. Both cavaliers were proudly wearing the golden gauntlet of their order on their left hands.
The first knight sorcerer, taller than all the rest, was clad in golden plate mail and wrapped in a broad red cloak. A crest the colour of ruby flowed from his helm. He commanded the strategic disposition of their troops.
The second knight sorcerer followed closely. He was a Westerner, strong and limber. His head was bald, and he was naked down to the waist, his face and torso covered in tattoos and tribal marks. His black stallion was dragging behind him two prisoners, bound in chains and visibly drowsy with drugs.
“The captives are High Elves!” exclaimed Curwë.
The two knights of the Golden Hand checked their steeds and, with masterful horsemanship, turned in opposite directions, set off into gallops, and circled the area several times. Vi
sibly satisfied with their defences and the dominating view the position offered over the valley, the two knights leapt down from their horses. Without a word or cry, dozens of soldiers began setting up what was to become the army’s command base.
Meanwhile, the main column of the Men’s army continued retreating into the gorge. With ten four-horse chariots and a dozen armoured wagons, they carried enough food and provisions to last the thousand troops of its army several weeks. Each chariot bore three officers and was accompanied by fifty-foot soldiers. Each wagon, stocked with food and supplies, came with twenty-five other workers including grooms, cooks and slaves. Each pair of chariots, therefore, had over a hundred and fifty Men in tow. The army of Tar-Andevar was manoeuvred with discipline; they were wise enough not to move too fast, and not so stupid to take too long in their retreat.
For a long time, Roquendagor looked out upon the scene before him. Now he too could see the army of Llymar entering the vale. The clans of the forest had mustered around fifteen units of light troops, including archers, javelin throwers and sling-wielders. Roquendagor guessed that this was probably as many troops as their fleet, sailing at full capacity, could have carried to Nyn Ernaly’s shores. There would be no reinforcements coming. The Elves of Llymar were throwing everything they had into this battle. Roquendagor’s sharp, incisive mind enabled him to predict the ebb and flow of any battle before it begun. The former heir of House Dol Lewin had led large armies through many conflicts. He prided himself on his mastery of the art of war. He was equally adept at commanding large numbers of units from a distance as he was at fighting blade to blade in the heat of combat. Roquendagor now understood the Nellos commander’s strategy.
“Look! The army of Men is trying to win this battle without fighting. The Westerners are not attacking their enemies head-on, still less attempting to flee. What they’re doing is setting a trap, in order to capture the entire Elvin army. If they were to succeed, it would be a martial achievement. This is how they have chosen to fight. Because they outnumber their enemy almost three to one, they will want to surround them. But, contrary to what might be expected, they are hoping to achieve this by retreating, by pretending they are fleeing into that vale to seek the protection of the hills. Their Elvin opponents are resolute and consider themselves to be the stronger side; they will most likely fall into the Westerners’ trap.”
“I see Gal dyl Avrony, his long spear in hand, at the vanguard of the Elvin army. He is fighting bravely like a hero of yore,” Curwë observed in the distance.
“That fool is ordering his troops to advance into the vale and start climbing the hills’ slopes,” said Aewöl coldly. “He will hobble his army, like tying his horse to a post.”
Roquendagor concurred. “Gal dyl is making a mistake even by fighting at the vanguard. He is being reckless and may get himself killed. Even if he is only injured in this useless fighting at the front line, his troops will become vulnerable. He must have been provoked and been unable to control his anger. Either Gal dyl is a kind-hearted Elf who is fighting out of guilt, or else he is a proud fool who has been humiliated. Whatever his weakness is, he compromises his army by interfering with the vanguard’s fighting. His actions will bring confusion among his ranks.”
Roquendagor considered further the human army’s movements.
“On the other hand, the Nellos Commander knows when to fight and when not to fight. He has wisely decided how best to use his larger force against a smaller but fiercer enemy. See how the upper ranks of his units are lying in wait for when the Elves are exhausted. This is a guarantee of success.”
Aewöl pointed to the top of a large rocky promontory, down from where the four Elves hid, where the knight sorcerers of the Golden Hand had set up their command centre. The post overlooked the vale the Elvin army was entering.
“That’s their commander,” Aewöl said, “the one with the golden armour and shining helmet. He’s giving orders on the army’s movements, which are then communicated in signals by his retinue. He’s managing that multitude of Men as if they were a dozen. He’s positioned his troops on a gentle slope, with the right flank and rear-guard towards the high ground; death lies before his army, and survival lies behind.”
Curwë fixed his sharp eyes on the Nellos army’s commander. He added.
“That’s no Man commanding the troops of Nellos. It’s a High Elf. And that’s a golden gauntlet on his left hand… He corresponds to the description of Eno Mowengot, commander of the knights of the Golden Hand. As we crossed the strait of Tuide, Master Aertelyr warned me about him; he is one of King Norelin’s most dreaded servants.”
Turning away from the battlefield, Aewöl lay on his back, white-faced, beside Curwë. His low voice almost echoed, as if it came from a dark tunnel.
“Roquendagor, you said that Gal dyl must have been provoked to engage in such a dangerous strategy. I believe you are right, and I think I know why. The two Elvin prisoners chained to the bald knight’s horse are the answer to that riddle.”
Curwë immediately looked in their direction, only a hundred yards down the slope.
“The prisoners’ wrists and ankles are tied with chains. A company of Nellos soldiers are standing around them. A few are posted on watch duty, but most of the Men are lying on the ground, looking dispirited. They are probably wounded soldiers who have been assigned the easy task of watching the captives, far from the fray. I cannot see the prisoners’ features, for their faces are hidden by red turbans. They are taller than their jailers. I don’t doubt they are High Elves, and probably prominent figures at that, judging by the cut of their clothes.
Curwë’ gaze was sharp. None of his companions could distinguish such details.
“One is dressed in blue robes; golden embroidery adorns his cloak. The other Elf looks younger and stronger. His silk clothes are some kind of purple, though it is difficult to tell, given the mud and bloodstains covering him. These Elves must have suffered cruelly. They have probably undergone torture at the hands of their captors, and perhaps worse, for they look acutely weary. Look! The older Elf is not being watched. Though his legs are securely bound, his arms are only tied about the wrists; he has just managed to free his hands. He is now removing his turban; he could hardly breathe before. His hair is a distinctive grey, a mess of aristocratic curls. It looks like that ancient lord from Tios Lluin! The one known as the Blue Mage.”
“It must be Curubor Dol Etrond,” said Aewöl. “That prisoner is Gal dyl’s counsellor... and friend. It explains everything... or at least why the Elvin army is so eager to free the knight sorcerers’ captives. But how has the ancient scholar ended up in such dire peril?”
Roquendagor seemed to care very little. Since the victory of Mentollà, he had deliberately kept his distance from the other High Elves of Llymar Forest, avoiding meetings with their representatives and refusing all their invitations. The oath of Lormelin remained heavy in his thoughts and, furthermore, he wanted nothing to do with the Dol Etrond lords, old enemies of his own house in the days of the war of Diamond and Ruby. Roquendagor instead opted to praise the military skills of the Nellos commander.
“Now I understand his strategy even better. This Eno Mowengot is a master of calculation; he is able to monitor both order and chaos. The movements of his carefully assembled formations are drawing Gal dyl’s units even further into the valley. At this present moment, he is handing his enemies what looks like an easy victory, luring them onwards behind his retreating chariots, promising them the destruction of his supplies and the chance to free the lordly prisoners. But his best troops are lying in wait. They were probably first to the battlefield within this vale and have now the luxury of waiting for their enemy. The astute knight sorcerer is making his foe’s decisions for him, and he is not permitting his foe to do the same back. By dangling the bait of the chained Elvin lords in front of Gal dyl, provoking anger and forcing him to move, Eno Mowengot has summoned his enemy to the precise place he has chosen to fight.”
No
w fully understanding the scope of Roquendagor’s predictions, Curwë could not help but admit to the genius of the Nellos army commander.
“This Eno Mowengot is truly a master of the art of war!”
“War is a not an art, Curwë,” disagreed Roquendagor bluntly.
He spoke with passion in his voice when he went on, for he treated all aspects of warfare with reverence.
“I see it as a very particular craft, a series of vital rules and considerations. War is not an art, and neither is it a game, for the price of defeat is too high.”
“I know that involving ourselves in the battle should be a last resort,” Curwë reluctantly admitted, “but surely now is the time to intervene! We know that this will be a decisive conflict. We cannot stay here like the audience to some tragic drama. We must help them.”
“Curwë,” Aewöl intervened, “You are always one for epic songs, but could you really handle the reality of what you are suggesting?”
“There would be nothing noble at all about watching our allies get slaughtered. I will not stand idly by while our units march to their doom.”
“Those proud words do you much honour,” Aewöl insisted, “but the impending disaster is clear for all to see, even to my paltry single eye. The army of Llymar is about to be defeated. The Westerners are conducting this battle impeccably. They haven’t put a foot wrong. Their victory is certain, for Gal dyl has already lost due to his own poor strategy.”
Curwë, now on the brink of despair, implored Roquendagor.
