Light Of Loreandril (55 page)

Only a handful succumbed to the second wave, mostly those already injured who could not quickly escape.

Lor’nata began collecting the injured, despite the danger of continued bombing. They carried away the burn victims, taking them down into hidden caves behind them where the Lor’natali had been set up. Even the dead bodies were not left where they had fallen. Instead, comrades helped take them away from the battlefield so that they could be sent respectfully to the Spirit Realm upon funeral pyres.

Satisfied with the amount of death and destruction they had wrought, their plan coming to fruition, the Rjukhan ordered the next wave of the attack. Govan and his soldiers had waited patiently in the middle of the battlefield, ready to complete their move.

The allied front lines watched them intently, expecting the enemy to charge at any minute. However, they had not seen the hundreds of archers creep into position. The allied lines were now in targeting range for the weaker short bows and armour-piercing crossbows.

From the hilltop, in horror, the survivors of the catapult attack watched the enemy’s plan unfold. Long lines of fire sprang up, running the length of the battlefield. There was no time to send a warning down to the frontline. A torrent of flaming arrows was launched into the air. Even with the warning sounds of horns, many soldiers did not have enough time to protect themselves, the crossbow bolts piercing the strongest of shields. Most of the flaming, wooden arrows bounced off the shields and armour, with only a few hitting stray, unprotected limbs. Once again, the enemy had succeeding in confounding their foes.

Surrounded by bodies, the allies all raised their shields, readying for the next assault. They clustered together for maximum protection, overlapping shields in an attempt to prevent the armour-piercing, steel bolts from boring through.

The enemy wasted no more time in such long distance warfare, and with an almighty vociferation the troops charged, surging forwards as one fearsome body, Govan at their head, leading the advance.

The remainder of the black army could not resist temptation and broke formation, presumptuous about an easy victory. The Rjukhan were unable to maintain control of their calamitous conjurations, the blood lust too strong. Breaking command and the Rjukhan’s mind-hold, the khalit and murzac stampeded forward, inexorably charging through their own ranks, crushing soldiers underfoot. Hot on their heels were the black wolves of the wilderness.

“Hold!” commanded Eilendan, his white stallion stamping his hooves nervously, champing on its bit. “Hold!”

His command spread across the frontline, and the allies stood their ground bravely. The rumbling sound grew louder, emanating from the ground beneath, as the devilish throng bore down upon them. Even the air vibrated with thumping drumbeats and screeching horns.

Only once the enemy was nearly within arms reach did the frontline raise their pikes and spears to greet them.

With a hot gust of wind and swirling dust, the two armies collided, the lines of dark and light, the antithesis of each another, merging into one.

The armies clashed, beasts and men falling upon the braced spears. Only one or two of the larger, thick-skinned khalit were able to break through, but they were quickly cut down by the long, sweeping tantos of the elves. Dying murzac and wolves snarled at their enemies, spitting blood as they snapped at the spikes that impaled them, seeking to free themselves.

The allies held fast, keeping their frontline strong. Where one soldier died, another one would immediately take their place.

Yet the siege was unremitting. There was a continuous flow of enemies forcing their way forward, each baying for blood, trampling over their dead.

From the command tent, flags were raised, instructing the remaining archers to fire at will. They rained down arrows, pelting the advancing dark sea, hoping to weaken the surging tide.

Holding his sword high, Eilendan led forward his Aeonates. In a mass of white hooves and whirling blades, the cavalry hacked a path across the battlefield behind enemy lines. It reduced the numbers racing towards the frontline, buying the allied soldiers time to regroup and strengthen their positions, calling reinforcements up from behind.

In the command tent there was a scene of disarray and confusion. The Minda Dwarves had misinterpreted the Empire’s attacks. In anger and frustration one had even thrown everything off the table. They were losing. Everyone knew that their forces could not maintain a strong position against such an endless torrent of attacks.

“We have no choice!” a Minda Dwarf shouted, banging his fist on the map table as his comrades were frantically trying to reposition the stones.

“If we release it now, the enemy will know our plans,” Neornil pleaded. His thoughts were only for his daughter’s wellbeing.

“We will lose our element of surprise!” continued Theonil, agreeing with Neornil and the other elders who stood around the table.

“We have already lost that! Can’t you see, that is the only thing we have over the enemy,” implored the Minda in unison.

“They have the numbers, and we have the Aeonorgal! We must use it!”

“Yes, but not now,” argued Theonil, continuing the heated debate that had already lasted several hours.

“You would prefer to wait until there are so few of us left that we cannot even protect the carriers?”

Theonil and the other elders finally fell silent. The Minda hit the heart of the matter: to wait could risk everything. The elders looked at each other, one by one nodding in agreement.

“Very well. Have it your way,” sighed Theonil, as Neornil left the tent. “Send the signal.” The el f regretted his decision almost immediately, feeling that the tide had already turned for the worst.

Down on the battlefield, flags signalled the next stage.  

“Nymril!” shouted Githean across the fighting.

The female Aeon elf slashed the trooper before her, ensuring he was dead with a swift stab through the neck as he fell on the ground. She turned, nodding to Githean, understanding what was to be done.

The three Aeon elves, Nymril, Githean and Ninithel, made their way backwards away from the frontline and the main frenzy of battle. Several Aeonate troops followed them closely, watching their backs as they went. They each positioned themselves equidistant apart across the length of the battlefield, and surrounded by small circles of troops, their shields dug into the ground as a barrier, made their final preparations.

Nymril took a deep breath. Her body was already weak and tired, her deteriorated muscles struggling to keep going. Her legs and arms felt weak and quivery, but her strength of spirit and sheer determination fuelled her.

The elf removed her white cloak and knelt in the mud. She flexed her lean shoulders and casually flicked her long, silvery hair behind her. The adrenaline was pulsating through her veins. She stilled her mind, clearing all thoughts of the horrific battle, and focused on calling the spirit inside her.

Taking a long, trembling, deep breath, she closed her eyes, tilting her head backwards, as she outstretched her arms.

“
Lleorentho aeonis dragonora tereso!”
 

Her words were joined by those of the other Aeon elves, echoing across the battlefield and the Spirit Realm
.
 

A deep-bellied rumble shook the ground, and for a moment time itself stood still. The Aeonorgal was waking the Earth Spirits, summoned by their wielders. Its radiance grew, blinding the enemy, as its rays illuminated the battlefield. Cries of anguish and fear rose from the enemy lines, and the foul beasts began running backwards in fear. The bright, pure white light burnt their black eyes and scaly flesh. Even the Rjukhan, as far back as they were, were forced to shield their eyes as the light penetrated the black material of their command tent.

The allied armies, even with their backs to the brightness, were forced to shut their eyes. They listened to the sound of the enemy retreating, but did not follow them. They knew there was more to come.

As suddenly as it began, the skies above became a deeper black, darker than any conjuration of the Rjukhan. It was as black as the dawn of time. Three bolts of lightning split the sky, striking the Aeon elves. The ground beneath them was cracked and scorched. In the darkness, three faint glimmers could be seen, rapidly growing in brightness and size.

The three Rjukhan stepped out of their tent, watching the scene unfold. They knew the power of the Aeonorgal was here. However, when preparing their strategy they had taken this into account. They had their own surprise for the allied forces and Elves, something borne from their own black magic.

Upon their command the seven uzgen were released from the colossal chains wrapped tightly around their black, muscular limbs. The malignant evil took to the sky, obscuring the bloodshot moon with their vast wings as they glided effortlessly over the lines below. In the darkness, they were still able to cast a deathly shadow upon the ground. Even the enemy soldiers crouched in fear as the huge monsters flew above them

The three Earth spirits were still growing, more slowly than expected. Given the time spent without the Aeonorgal, the earth spirits had gone into hibernation and the elven bodies become weaker. The etchings of all three elves gleamed in the darkness like constellations of stars drawn upon their skin.

Nymril’s white dragon spirit unfurled its wings, letting out an ear-splitting roar, tipped with white flames. The allies below cheered and celebrated, banging their weapons upon their shields, having believed for so long that they would never see such a sight again.

Ninithel’s scarlet griffin also roared, spewing red tongues of flame from its mouth as it flapped its feathered wings, growing in size by the second. The green glow of Githean’s eagle spirit streaked into the air, spiralling up into the darkness, continuing to grow in size.

No longer fearing they would lose this battle, the allies found new courage and strength. They launched their own attack, driving the faltering enemy lines backward across the battlefield. Those that had not already fled at the sight of the earth spirits, began stumbling backward, faced with a renewed, determined foe.

Now the darkness had returned, the gnarled murzac rejoined the fray, snapping at limbs ferociously. They launched themselves at elves, men and dwarves, biting at heads and throats, disembowelling with a single slash of their blackened claws, as the body beneath them writhed in pain. The larger, scaly khalit also returned, snapping necks and squashing heads like pumpkins with their razor-edged, beaked mouths.

Under the mind control of the Rjukhan, the uzgen targeted the three earth spirits. Accompanied by the sounds of fierce battle below, black and white earth magic collided mid-air. Sparks flew as the two forces clashed. The spirits became an amalgam of scales, feathers and talons, engulfed in white and black flames. On the ground in their defenceless, suspended state, the three Aeon elves were closely guarded by the Aeonate troops.

With the Earth Spirits heavily occupied and outnumbered by the uzgen, the black armies surged forward once more. Spears and swords clashed against shields and armour. It was a bloody frenzy, with severed limbs and slashed bodies strewn underfoot.

Although heavily outnumbered, the allies held their own, killing at least four enemy soldiers or beasts for every one of their own slain.

Gaular and Jaidan fought side by side, protecting each other’s backs. Together, they were an impenetrable force. Regardless of whether it was beast or man that attacked the pair, they cut it down, instantly prepared for the next attack.

Eilendan also did more than his fair share of the killing. He and a handful of his men continued to wreak havoc on the enemy. Still on horseback, these skilful Aeonates were an equal match to the raging khalit. Mindful of their slashing tails and snapping beaks, they worked in pairs driving the beasts to the ground, impaling them with long spears, killing them with a final sword through their spiny skulls.

This was still not enough, and the black waves of the surging sea of armoured bodies began ploughing through the allied armies.

Three fingers of attack drove their way forward, one led by Govan, another by Canvil and a third by Javil who had received a field promotion. Each led a platoon of elite Karvathan troops, who made easy work of the short Danin Dwarves, and sword wielding men and Elves. They slowed when they reached pockets of Dun Dwarves, who, with their superior strength and size, were more of a handful.

Despite this, they still battled their way towards the goal: three sources of light that glimmered towards the back lines, the Aeon Elves; bring them down, and the allied armies would quickly fall.

Their strategy was soon realised and within moments reinforcements were sent to surround the Aeon elves, with archers being brought down to join the fray. Nechan and Cradon also accompanied them, drawing their swords. The adrenaline had taken hold and they were ready to kill whatever came towards them.

Now, a race ensued for who could reach their goal more quickly. For both armies everything depended on the fate of the three Aeon elves.

“Cradon, wait! I’m not sure……”

“You will be fine. Just stay with me!” shouted Cradon, as they continued running and sliding down the darkened hill, following the other archers onto the battlefield. They were plunging themselves into the full frenzy of battle and although Cradon had gained experience on his travels, Nechan had not.

Copying his brother, Nechan drew his sword, feeling his palms start sweating immediately. As he felt the warm, smooth metal against his clammy skin, the world around him seemed to disappear into a blurry haze. For a brief moment he felt frozen in time, stuck in a strange, lost memory as if this battle was familiar.

“Come on!” Cradon grabbed his dawdling brother, who was standing in a daze.