Hill of Taillte, circa 7500 B.C.E.
The sun was at its apex, blazing above the countryside and bombarding it with its relentless energy. The air shimmered with heat, as if the whole world was a mirage, and the wind had all but disappeared, reducing the land to a suffocating stillness where not even a slight breeze offered its welcome touch. In the looming sky, which was cloudless and pure, drifted the dark shapes of vultures, their presence serving as a morbid prognostication of the events to come; a foretelling of madness and senseless violence, of vermillion stains. All was quiet but for the occasional call of a bird or the sharp report of shifting metal, the latter of which echoed from the hillside, where the sunlight reflected off of a sea of shaped metal as if it were a mirror.
King Frond's army stretched across the Hill of Taillte in a solid line, its vibrant banners hanging limply in the windless air, as if the sultry environment had sucked the life out of them. Its ranks were perfectly measured and compartmentalized into the various regiments that made up its numbers, making it an indomitable formation of professional soldiers that could be broken up into purposeful units at a moment's notice. Everyone was gathered now, their attire donned and their tools of war polished to a shine. Steel glinted everywhere, the edges of swords and the tips of spears appearing glorious in the sunlight. Such glory was an illusion, just like the deceitful nature of tales of heroism in battle—that there is a good and an evil, a light and darkness, a right and wrong, in the sidings of a conflict. The truth was nothing like that. It was coated in blood, and lies—their stench as pervasive as rot—could not conceal it. Though everyone looked splendid and honorable in their clean outfits and shining armor, their real nature would be made evident with a thick, coagulating coating of vermillion. Truth would be laid bare by sharp edges and sharp hearts, and hell would rejoice over it. Hell would be on earth this day.
Aldreda Holen stood at the forefront of the army, silent as she stared out into the shimmering distance of the countryside. Her hazel eyes were cold and filled with steel, and her visage was a solid barrier between the unforgiving world and her inner emotions. She felt sick inside, so very sick, but it was matched by a strength that made its influence negligible. Part of her hated war, detesting everything it had to do with, but another side of her, one that was of equal measure, knew that such senseless violence was unavoidable. Perhaps it was even necessary. Certainly it was here, with fairykind backed against a wall and left with no other option. Surely they were in the right this time. Surely it was a noble cause.
The elf suppressed a sigh, knowing better than to let her feelings blemish her outward indomitability. She was the commander of the elven light infantry, and as such she had to be strong, not for herself, but for them. In times like this, soldiers needed a leader that could put aside all of her prejudices and morals, all of her passions and fears, and become a being that could approach the relentless chaos of war with a stoic professionalism; a strength that made her impervious to what would drive others mad. Though in truth she was just as afraid as everyone else, she did not show it. Fear was contagious, and it could shatter the morale of an army if it was not controlled.
Behind Aldreda stretched the elven light infantry division—the last of the many that had once protected the People's realms. They stood shoulder to shoulder, two thousand five hundred strong, forming an imposing wall of metal and flesh. Their armor was nimble, consisting of a combination of scale and chainmail which were made out of a lightweight alloy that allowed for maximum mobility and defense. They were armed with well-crafted swords that had a slight and purposeful curve, and additionally each of them had a wicked-looking spear. No shields were present, and that was for two reasons. Firstly, trying to block a direct attack from a human with a shield was ludicrous, as an elf's arm would either break or, if not, they would still be sent sprawling. Secondly, they were light infantry, and heavy shields would negate that purpose. They had to be quick and decisive, wielding their weapons with both hands so as to be strong with their attacks. Given how they were half the size of their enemy, combat was more about evasion and speed rather than brutal confrontation. Such a strategy was evident in their division's motto, "Gods grant us swiftness."
Aldreda's division made up the right flank of Frond's army. Where she stood she could look to her left and behold the vast line of the combined force. She could see most of the other commanders at the forefront as well, each with their respective units. Everything was organized, down to the last fairy.
At both flanks of the formation were equal groups of Cillian Tryndiran's centaurs, who served as heavy cavalry and numbered at nine hundred. Behind the main force were the sprite brigades, under Nephan Screeth's command, numbering at twelve hundred. The dwarfs, who were Frond's sappers and engineers, were dispersed and actively working under the watchful eye of Dmitar Grundin; there were five-hundred or so of them. The middle ranks of the army, and consequently its backbone, was composed of multiple divisions. Middle left and middle right were the goblin and gnome battalions, numbering sixteen-hundred and eleven-hundred respectively. Pixies were scattered throughout the army as messengers and observers, as in a battle only a month ago most of their warriors had been wiped out. Front-center was the demons, the army's heavy infantry and veritable berserkers. Numbering at two thousand three hundred, they wore thick armor and carried sturdy shields, and were armed with a wide array of vicious swords, axes, spears, and pikes. Under N'zall Bludyn's command, the demons were the only battalions—aside from the heavy cavalry—that could take on the humans directly and not get slaughtered like cattle. They were also the most zealous.
Qwan's warlocks—only ten in total—were located in the middle as well, alongside Frond himself. The Elven king stood at the exact center of the line, at the forefront where he could see everything. Two hundred of his royal guard, the elite of the elite, loomed behind him, and the banners of his regency hung above in the hot, stagnant air.
Aldreda took all of this in without a word, silently contemplating the coming battle and what the gathered forces' capabilities were. Their plan was already set, but the battlefield always changed in ways that made plans obsolete; Aldreda knew that from firsthand experience. She needed to know everything she could so that, when the time came, she could make an informed and strategically sound decision. As her mind worked in the background, the elf looked forward towards the distant hills. A great haze was beginning to form on the horizon, rising like an approaching cloud and swirling in the sultry air. It was a vast wall of dust, kicked up from the dried earth by an unseen force that everyone knew. Soon the clouds of dust were accompanied by a distant rumble, one that sounded like thunder; yet with the clear sky, it was evident that this was no natural din. Aldreda eyed the clouds warily, her right hand reflexively resting on the pommel of her sword.
In the middle of the ranks, far from the female commander, Qwan shifted with discomfort. A fool would blame the heat, but he did not. He was afraid. Everyone was, except maybe for some of the crazier demons who were merely thirsting for blood. It was thick in the air—the tension of ten-thousand souls as they beheld the approaching clouds of dust—and along with it came a silence that was truly unsettling. No one spoke, and with the wind nonexistent and the fairy army static, the only sounds were those of the vultures overhead and the growing rumble in the distance. It was truly the most tense moment the warlock had ever experienced, and it only got worse. Glimmers of light began to appear in the distance, glinting through the obscuring haze of dust; the glint of metal.
Here they come, Qwan thought to himself, beholding the appearance of the first ranks of the human army. It slowly crested the distant hills, and with the topography no longer separating them from Frond's army, the sound of their countless footfalls increased dramatically. A minute passed, and soon the entirety of the distant hills and fields were consumed by the approaching tide of humanity. They trudged across the land, like an advancing sea of swaying grass. Their metal, sharp and purposeful, glinted in the hot sunlight, their promise of pain and death ominously foreshadowed by the flashing of their edges. The earth shook with the combined impact of tens of thousands of footfalls, and in the air rumbled the sound of their passing, all marked and timed by the rolling of drums that echoed like thunder. More minutes passed, and more and more battalions of the humans came into view, a never-ending tide of soldiers that dwarfed Frond's legions as does a bear dwarf a fox. It was appalling, even though everyone already knew the number of their enemy. Nothing could prepare them for seeing it in person, just as no amount of foreknowledge could truly prepare one for the brutal madness of combat.
A shudder went through the fairy ranks as the human forces continued to appear over the hills. Even the most battle-hardened warriors uttered a curse or a prayer in the face of such odds. Qwan silently offered a supplication of his own, hoping that the gods would favor them in what was soon to come. The warlock glanced to his left, where King Frond stood a few meters ahead of the front rank. The regal elf was observing the advancing enemy, his measured expression bespeaking determination and calculation. In his eyes, just barely visible to Qwan from afar, was a peculiar glimmer, one that Qwan rarely witnessed. The elven king may have appeared firm in his resolve, and he was, but he too was fearful of the situation they faced, understanding just as well as anyone that they were up against near impossible odds. Frond never backed down in the face of such terror, but he was still a mortal being, feeling fear and uncertainty just like the rankers all around him. Qwan read the king like an open book, understanding everything he saw, and with a discreet sigh returned his gaze to the distance, where the looming human army continued to grow.
It will take a lot more than bravery to win this day, the warlock mused, incapable of ignoring the reality of their position. Bravery was well and good, but there were only ten thousand of them—the last of the People's brave. Furthermore, the humans were brave as well, and driven by something that the fairies, even in their desperate situation, could not muster. When it came down to it, even when the fairies were more skilled fighter to fighter, the humans had a distinct advantage. Yet we must face this terror of our own making, the consequences of our past, the warlock thought, watching expressionlessly as the forward ranks of the human army engulfed the fields a few kilometers away. It would be minutes until they were upon them, and time seemed to go even faster, as if the divine powers were tricksters at heart. Before Qwan knew it the human army had come fully into view, its appalling size stretching to the hills in the distance. Dust filled the air in wispy clouds, and the sound of over a hundred thousand marching men rumbled throughout the countryside. The warlock could now take in their strength in its entirety, and what he calculated was a confirmation of his suspicions. It made him shudder, as if a cold breeze had washed over him. Truly any cold would have been a miracle. The heat was unbearable, and he had not the time or the will to ameliorate it—he would need all of his magic for what was to come next.
On the right flank, before the ranks of elven infantry, Aldreda blinked away the sweat that was coming down her brow in rivulets. Over the years she had grown accustomed to fighting in the heat, and yet she was perspiring heavily as she stood under the shade of her regiment's banner. No, it wasn't the heat. She regarded the human army, her hazel eyes glinting with intense resolve. There the enemy was, looming before her with its endless ranks of infantry. She studied it carefully.
The human army was not as organized or diversified as Frond's, but it made up for it with sheer numbers. Its warriors came from many lands and cultures, and so their attire and weaponry varied greatly, but that was where their differences ended. They were all humans, with limited capabilities compared to fairy folk, and they seemed to have the general distribution of warrior classifications. Spearmen, shield bearers, bowmen, heavy and light infantry, and others made up the ranks. Long spears, wicked swords, heavy axes, sturdy bows, throwing spears, thick shields, short swords, sickles, war clubs, slings, knives—their many weapons shone in the sunlight, as did their varied armor. Aldreda noted that there was no cavalry in the human ranks, much to her relief. It would seem that the humans had yet to domesticate and learn to use animals as tools of war. Without cavalry of any sort, the mobility of the human army was limited.
She studied their organization, and soon realized that they were far more systematized than she had initially thought. The human forces were divided into battalions of a thousand men, each with a generic but effective order of spears and shields in front and archers behind. From where she stood she could make out the battalion commanders, whose attire and behavior gave them away. Each had a flag bearer, and drummers for step and signaling, and there appeared to be a hierarchy of ranks below the commanders, making it so that the divisions of a thousand were kept relatively under control. Aldreda discovered all of this by observing the approaching army, which was now only two kilometers away. She had been fighting for decades, and had sharp eyes, making it possible for her to make such observations from afar with accuracy. She was glad she could, because with them she could use the elves at her command to greater effect. Knowledge was power, especially in warfare.
Aldreda scanned the human army with renewed wariness, searching for other details. An army of such magnitude needed to have a leader, as otherwise it would not be so ordered and stratified. No, the human tribes and patriarchies must have held another war council for this mobilization, and there they would have chosen their greatest tactician to lead their warriors to battle. Aldreda had fought against many such men, and defeated more than she lost to. But there was one who had risen above the others, a cunning man who had led his legions to victory on hundreds of occasions and crippled many of the People's armies. He was brutal, intelligent, and more than anything, not passionate about war itself, making him a foe who could look past the distractions of battle and his own prejudices to see the path to triumph; a human capable of retaining clarity of thought even in the worst of struggles. Aldreda had fought against his armies several times before, and those had been the most difficult skirmishes of her life; one of them had made her a widow. Even still, she had never fought him face-to-face. The female commander scanned the front line of the enemy force, searching until she found him. There he was, leading his men by example, walking strongly a few meters ahead of his soldiers. The sight of him made Aldreda frown, and it instilled in her both hatred and wariness—hatred for what he had taken from her, and wariness for what he could take next. Her hand clenched around the pommel of the sword on her right hip—her late husband's—and her eyes glinted with a warrior's enmity.
So you are the one they chose to wipe us out, she thought angrily. It's been years since your ambush killed my husband, but it has never lost its sting. I will repay it, Acaed Sargon.
General Acaed Sargon regarded Frond's army with a calm expression, his eyes picking out every detail that was of importance to his work. He had come to a halt upon a small hillock, allowing him to see over the thick ranks of his forces and take in the whole of the battlefield. His army continued forward, the first two legions closing the distance between them and the Hill of Taillte until they were no more than a kilometer from the fairy line. Upon Sargon's gesture, his signals officer waved a flag while another blew a horn in a simple but meaningful tempo. The signal was relayed from battalion to battalion, the sound of trumpets and the waving of flags repeating across the miles of space that the army occupied. Each division came to a halt upon noticing the signal, and in a matter of seconds the entire force ceased its march. The roll of drums died out along with the rumble of many footfalls, and the dust began to clear almost immediately. Then there was silence; a powerful, otherworldly silence as the two armies stood opposite each other.
General Sargon continued to observe his enemy, silent as he studied their position and its surroundings. It was only after he had concluded on his findings that he nodded to one of his commanders, who subsequently took Acaed's banner—a once beautiful tapestry now worn by many years of use—and planted it firmly in the soil atop the hillock. The banner stood freely, and a slight breeze, almost unnoticeable, gently unfurled its otherwise lazily hanging colors. Sargon felt its presence behind him, very much used to the feeling it gave; many hundreds of times it had been at his back as he beheld the field of battle. It was a symbolic gesture that he always used. Here stood his banner, planted in fairy ground as a symbol of his army's defiance. Once the general's banner was planted, the battle was set in stone, the ground it claimed becoming sacrosanct. There would be no retreat, no quarter, and no compromise. Only upon total victory or utter defeat would his banner be removed. Until then, it would loom over the ranks of his army and bear witness to the horrors of war.
Sargon knew that his commanders were waiting eagerly on his word. Truth be told, having struggled through years of conflict, the entire army was itching to fight. They wanted an end to it, just as he did, though some just wanted blood. Sargon knew this as well. Regardless of their intentions, and in spite of their noble goal, there would always be the perversion of man's heart, the rise of their darkest proclivities. The general had no illusions; this battle was going to be bloody and horrific, and many of his men would find glee in its vermillion stain. He found it repulsive, but he was not one to judge. The humans had suffered greatly at the hands of the People, and in some ways this violence was but reciprocity. Not that an eye for an eye was an ideal paradigm; if anything, it was madness. But in this case it was the only way. All other avenues had been exhausted decades ago, crushed under the iron gears of war.
The general did nothing for a few intense moments, his thoughts focused and his eyes locked on the looming army. He appeared to be in deep cogitation, his visage contorted with a seriousness that could not be rivaled. In reality, however, he was preparing himself for what he would have to do, and for the consequences that would be his alone to bear as the appointed general of the combined forces. He hardened his mind, coating it with determination, and made his heart like steel—cold, solid, and merciless. In his position, one had to be moral and yet capable of putting aside any of such qualities, becoming a warrior who carried out his duty with a cold professionalism that left no room for the hesitancy that morality gave rise to. For what he was about to do, he turned himself in the feared general who had led many brutal campaigns; he turned himself into that which the People feared most. Externally it was a quick, unnoticeable change, and yet for Acaed it felt as though he had just closed off half of his very soul. Truly, if there was ever a soul-destroying profession, this was it.
As his legions awaited his command, and as Frond's army stood defiantly before him, General Sargon lifted his gaze to the sky, where the black forms of circling vultures glided. The carrion birds hovered gracefully in the sultry air, waiting for the scent of death. Indeed, they were Death's concierges. Sargon eyed them coldly, and then looked back down to the enemy forces. He spotted King Frond with ease, easily telling him apart from the other commanders in the People's forward ranks. They were a thousand meters away from each other, but Sargon knew—out of instinct and an unshakable premonition—that the elf was looking right back at him. He nodded slowly, a calculative glint in his eyes.
"Commander," he said firmly, never taking his eyes from Frond.
"Sir?" the officer behind him asked.
"It is time that I meet my adversary, face to face."
King Frond observed the human army from afar, easily spotting the general that led it. The elf showed no discomfort in the face of his enemy, nor did he betray the fear that was present deep within his chest. Over a hundred thousand men loomed before him, all intent on murdering every last fairy that lived on the surface. There had never been such an intense moment, and there had never been so much stacked against the People. Frond understood what this meant, but he remained certain in his countenance, knowing that everyone—even his commanders—were depending on him to show the strength of the People's hearts. As their king, he could not afford to be anything less than the spitting image of courage and sound judgment.
As the elven king observed the humans, he noticed movement in the forward ranks. It did not surprise him, and as he noted it he did not hesitate to conclude and take action.
"Their general wishes to meet us before battle," he stated regally, as if it was completely inconsequential.
Several of Frond's commanders were beside him, those whose units constituted the middle ranks. Jarmil Kendth was one of them, and when he heard the king speak he looked to him beseechingly.
"What are you orders, My Lord? Shall we accept their audience?"
N'zall Bludyn, the demon commander, was at Frond's left, and upon hearing this he growled with unconcealed zeal. "Let me kill them, Lord Frond. We can cut off the head of their army in one fell swoop!" The demon's visage was contorted with hatred and dark desire; his eyes glinted with a voracious thirst for human slaughter.
King Frond heard both of them, and did not speak until the demon commander had finished. "That is not how we conduct war, Commander Bludyn," he said firmly. "If we ever stooped to such barbarity, we would be no better than the humans." He paused, watching as a small group of humans broke free of the front ranks and started walking through the field towards the fairy line. "We will meet them in the middle. Commanders Kendth and Screeth with me, everyone else hold positions and await our return."
N'zall seemed perturbed, as he barred his teeth and snarled with frustration. Frond was quick to give him a sharp look, one that pacified the demon in an instant. The elf then looked forward, directly at his human counterparts, and started to walk. His two commanders shadowed him on either side.
The two parties reached each other a few minutes later, in the exact center of the field of battle. Five-hundred meters separated them from both armies, and with all of the gathered warriors standing still in anticipation, the only sound that drifted through the humid air was that of the grass beneath the two parties' feet, and of their voices as they met in the no man's land. General Sargon, having stopped only a few meters—striking distance—from his counterparts, was the first to speak.
"King Erendael Frond," he said smoothly, his voice bereft of contempt and judgment. "I am glad that you decided to converse on this eve of battle."
King Frond looked up at the human, who towered over him and his commanders like a tree. The elf locked eyes with him, and betrayed no uncertainty or fear. "General Acaed Sargon. Your blood-soaked reputation precedes you."
"As does yours," the general replied, taking no offense to the elf's words—they were completely true.
"Though it is customary to meet like this on such an occasion, I hardly see the benefit," Frond continued, glancing at the two commanders at Acaed's side before looking back to him. "The time for talk has long since passed."
"Indeed it has," Sargon stated coolly. "But as much as that may be true, I still see it proper to extend what little mercy my position can allow." He studied the elven king, and then continued. "As the king of these people, you have the ability to put an end to this war right now. Both sides have had their fill of bloodshed, and more will be senseless. You can see that you are outnumbered greatly, and though you hold the high ground you cannot hope to defeat my legions. Withdraw, and relinquish these lands to the stewardship of humanity. I give you my word that my forces will not pursue you."
There was a long silence as Frond regarded the general, his eyes glinting with thought. However, there was no real dilemma in his mind, for his decision was immovable, just like the determination of his warriors to retain what little freedom they had left. After a few moments he shook his head, ever so slightly, and spoke with a calm, confident tone.
"I cannot make that decision, General. You know full well what it is like to be pushed to the brink of destruction. Now that our positions have been reversed, I find that we cannot go any further backwards. I am sure you understand me when I say that no one, not a single soul under my command, desires to forfeit their land and homes, for in doing so we forfeit our identity and dignity. The People, just like your kind, desires to flourish, and if that must come at the price of battle, then so be it." He paused, gesturing behind him. "We have come here with the resolve to put an end to this war, indeed, but it will not be on your terms. That will be decided in battle."
Sargon regarded the elf thoughtfully, his eyes ever filled with calculation.
"What you say is noble, perhaps, but there is a fine line between that and being foolish. Surely you have witnessed enough lives being sacrificed in the name of honor and ideals, neither of which is truly worth the price of blood. It is futile…" The man paused, studying his counterpart for a few seconds, and finding no difference in his outward resolve. "I will give you one more chance to consider my offer. You can still save yourselves, and lives are worth more than land."
Frond did not seem to consider it at all; he would have if it was at all a prospect. He shook his head, and spoke firmly. "Your people will only hunt us down. Not even you can control the darker proclivities of humanity, and once you lose your position as general your alliance will break apart and each faction will do whatever they please. There is no reason to believe that you will leave us be in the long run."
"Then you are adamant about this, aren't you?"
Frond nodded. "We all are. This is our only chance."
Sargon nodded in return, understanding in his eyes. "Then so be it. From one old warrior to another, I respect your decision."
"You are far more tactful than most men," Frond said honestly. "It is a shame that we must fight. But such is war."
"Aye," Sargon said.
The elven king glanced at the sky, noting the position of the sun. "Well, it seems that we have wasted each other's time meeting like this. Time is so fleeting as it is."
"I beg to differ," Acaed said, also noting the sun's position. "At the very least, I have been given the opportunity of seeing you face to face, my worthy enemy. I have been given the privilege of understanding the resolve that keeps you and your people going even against such odds. I admire such strength. I will remember it long after this battle is over."
With the battle looming closer than ever, Frond managed to smile a little. "And if we should be victorious, I will remember yours."
The human general nodded, and then glanced back to his army, which was waiting silently. "It is time," he said smoothly, his voice suddenly hard and bereft of feeling. "We will begin hostilities once you return to your kin." He gave a final nod to King Frond, and then proceeded back towards his army. The elven king did the same after a moment of thought.
With the two leaders parting ways and returning to their respective armies, the air became dense with tension. The last opportunity for negotiation was gone, leaving conflict as the only option. Everyone felt its certainty now, and that realization sent a ripple of anxiety through the fairy ranks. Soldiers did what they always did on the very cusp of combat. Some made a final prayer, beseeching the gods for their righteous guidance. Many fidgeted with their armor, making certain that straps and latches were firmly set and that nothing would come loose during the battle. Others simply shifted uneasily, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination as they beheld the enemy that loomed before them.
Aldreda Hollen did none of these things. She stood at the forefront of her division with absolute stoicism, her figure as still as a statue. The elves behind her found encouragement in her immovable presence, her strength imparting confidence in those who did not feel strong enough to stand on their own. Yet despite this outward fortitude, Aldreda felt the same as them. To feel otherwise would mean that she was either insane or ridiculously naïve, of which she was neither. She watched with cold, determined eyes as King Frond returned to the front rank. Every fiber of her being was itching to move, to do something, anything, but she knew the plan, and for the moment there would be no release.
When the elven king was back in his position in the center of the line, he turned about to face the humans again, this time making a gesture to his signals officer. A signal flag was waved, and the message was relayed throughout the army. Aldreda eyed the signal and felt no surprise. It was a command to remain in their current positions. She frowned a little, feeling the itch of sweat running down her back. For her, battle was all about rapid movement and sudden changes, not standing around in waiting. But she did not question Frond's judgment, not during such a fundamental moment. Besides, there was a prudence to it anyway, and given the overwhelming number of their enemy, acting rashly was the last thing they should do. No, Aldreda knew the plan, and so she suppressed her proclivities and waited patiently. Before her stretched the human legions, and they too were completely still. That would not last long, she was sure of it.
General Acaed Sargon stood upon the small hill where his banner was planted, his calculating gaze fixed on his enemy. He was not surprised when Frond's forces remained stationary. They had the high ground, and were outnumbered greatly, making aggressive action highly perilous. The fairies would remain on the defensive for the time being.
"It appears they want us to make the first move," Sargon stated, his eyes bereft of emotion. He studied the enemy force for a few seconds, and then the ground between them. Then he nodded, ever so slightly, as if the fate of the entire battle had just been decided. With his visage ever cast in coldness, and his eyes never leaving the enemy force, the general spoke to his signals officer, who had been waiting eagerly for his word.
"First echelon, advance."
Flags waved, drums rolled, and officers barked. The deafening silence that had fallen over the battlefield was suddenly obliterated by the rumble of many footsteps, and the stillness departed as the entire front section of the human army—ten divisions numbering at a total of ten-thousand men—surged forward in a steady march. Dust soon swirled into the air, and the earth shook ominously, both harbingers of the massive force that was heading straight towards the fairy line. Acaed watched them advance, and then turned his gaze back to the fairy line, where King Frond stood. The elf's gold filigreed armor shone in a deific manner, startling even at a distance.
"Your move, Frond," the man said coldly. "Prove to me that you are worthy to lead your people."
King Frond watched as the first ten divisions of the human army surged forward. It was a frightening sight, he could not deny that. Ten thousand men, clad in armor and bearing weapons and ill intent, advanced towards them like a wave—a deluge of steel and muscle—and that was only the first contingent of an army fifteen times that size. Even still, Frond did not waver; the ironlike nature of his countenance could not be worn away by fear, not when there were emotions far stronger that kept his courage glowing within him. The elf eyed the army before him, noting its speed and direction, and concluded that it aligned with his strategy quite nicely. His commanders were all waiting on his orders, and despite the fact that they knew the plan, they itched to get moving. They would have to wait a little longer. Patience was as vital as strength in times like this.
An intense minute passed, every second marked by an increase in the volume of the human advance. The rumbling grew and grew, and the sound of clanking armor and weapons filled the air with a steady rise whose crescendo was the clash of armies. The human divisions were halfway to the fairy line, having reached the base of the hill and begun walking up its incline. This slowed them down considerably, but they did not seem to be in any rush—they knew better than to waste their energy charging such a distance.
Frond did nothing for another minute. Everyone waited anxiously, but remained still as the human army came within a hundred meters of them. It was then that the human commanders announced the charge, and with a terrifying collective roar the force of ten-thousand men broke into a run, their footfalls shaking the earth and the courage of the fairies before them. But Frond was unaffected, as were his commanders. They saw the incoming army, and felt no worry or trepidation. The King would not let the humans actually reach their line, not by a longshot.
With less than thirty seconds before the enemy reached them, King Frond finally made his move. With a slight motion—a near imperceptible gesture—he summoned Dmitar Grundin, the commander of the dwarfs, who had been standing a few meters behind him since the beginning of the human advance.
"Commander Grundin," Frond said calmly, his eyes on the approaching humans. "You may begin."
The grizzled dwarf nodded resolutely, and subsequently dove into the earth. His entire engineer regiment—some eight-hundred dwarfs—was waiting on his word, and they were about to get it. A few seconds passed, and in that time Frond could see the whites of the humans' eyes—he could see the hate, anger, and fear glinting within them like metallic dust in the sunlight, a window into the hearts of the warriors that sought to cut him down. It made him smile sadly, for he knew that all of them, regardless of their convictions and their arguably rightful hatred for the People, were as good as dead.
"So the first blow is ours to make…"
It happened with a suddenness that seemed impossible, but its reality was immediate for the thousands of charging men. There was a great cacophony in the air, one that drowned out the shouts and footfalls of the humans, and it was followed by a trembling of the earth that shook everyone for a brief, terrifying moment. Then, without any apparent resistance, the ground beneath the human divisions gave way completely, crumbling into a deep pit that sliced across the field of battle for over a kilometer. Two-thirds of the human force was instantly swallowed by the trap, and the air became filled with dust in an instant, blinding the rest. For those who had not fallen in, the dust blinded them to the danger, and their forward momentum combined with the collective weight of their comrades behind them, pushed them right into the pit as well. The cries of anger and courage soon became ones of horror and agony as hundreds of men fell to their deaths, and thousands more broke limbs as they fell atop their comrades. It was a decisive, crippling blow, and in thirty seconds only a few thousand of the attacking humans remained aboveground, while the rest—many wounded or dead—languished in the pit.
King Frond didn't even blink as this happened, and upon its completion he only gestured to his signals officer. A flag was waved, and then action was taken. All at once the sprites who had been waiting in the rear ranks took to the air, wielding bows and spears to strike at their trapped enemies, and half of the goblin division surged forward, fireballs sizzling to life on their hands. What followed was absolute carnage.
With the cloud of dust obscuring everything, the remaining humans did not see the attack until it was upon them. Sprites burst through the gloom, lobbing spears and firing arrows as they flew over their enemy, while receiving only sparse retaliation from the humans' disoriented archers. At the same time the goblins unleashed a fusillade of fireballs into the pit, raining the glowing orbs down upon the struggled survivors without mercy. It was a hellish scene, and it soon became sickening, but it kept progressing until Frond signaled for the attack to stop. When he finally did—after three minutes of dishing out hell—the screams had died out, and the dust in the air was replaced by a black smoke that smelt of charred flesh. The sprites and goblins, having sustained virtually no casualties, returned to the fairy line, and Frond took in the sight of the carnage. The pit before him glowed like Hades, belching out smoke and filling the air with its stench. The smoke spread across the field between the two armies, blocking their views, just as Frond had anticipated. He did not dwell on what he had done, even though his stomach churned at the stench that filled the air and his senses withered in the face of senseless brutality. Instead he continued with his duty, this time with a nod to the commanders on his left and right flanks.
Aldreda was one of these commanders, standing with her elves on the right. She had observed the battle without any perceptible emotion, even while some of those behind her vomited—some fairies could never get over the scent of death, no matter how much they experienced. She was stone cold, an image of imperturbability, and upon the deaths of nearly ten-thousand men she said not a word. There was no elation in the small victory, not for her, an elf who had long since stopped feeling such things. She was a weapon of war, her past drenched in so much blood that the excitement of victory did not occur to her. Maybe fifty years ago, when she was younger, but not now. Now she kept a clear head, so that perhaps she could survive one last battle.
When Aldreda received the order from Frond, she did not hesitate for a second. With a call to her soldiers she signaled the advance, and then ventured forth into the obscured battlefield; into the swirling haze that reeked of death. In moments her entire division of light infantry was on the move, dashing quickly thanks to their light gear, and with speed as their ally they moved further to the side of the armies. At the same time a detachment from the gnome division was doing the same on the left flank, and a company of centaurs was seeking out what remained of the humans' first echelon. The smoke obscured all of this, making their movements invisible to the human commanders. The smoke would not last for long, not if a wind came, so they moved swiftly to their positions.
Aldreda took her elves to the far right side of the battlefield, where the grass was long and a number of trees had grown to form a small forest. Once there she had her forces hunker down, becoming undetectable in the foliage. There she waited, whilst the smoke churned in the air and the scent of death assaulted her nostrils. Then, a moment later, the wind came.
The wind was intermittent, and only lasted for a few minutes, but it was enough to push the obscuring smoke from the field, and leave only a grey haze between the two armies; an ephemeral mist that hung in the air like the spirits of the thousands who had just perished. Upon this clearing the wind ceased, quite oddly, leaving everyone in the sultry heat once more.
Upon the small hill near the forefront of the human army, General Sargon took in the sight before him. He no longer saw the first echelon, nor enough bodies to comprise it. Instead he saw a smoldering pit, and a killing field where fairy cavalry and sprites had mowed down the survivors. It was an appalling sight, but he felt nothing at all—he would feel it later, but not now, when he was in the mindset of war. Even still, he was surprised by Frond's brutality, and that shed light onto the inner turmoil that the elven king was going through. It made evident the People's desperation, and because of that, it made evident their danger. An animal, no matter how small, became a beast when backed into a corner. This was important information, and apart from that the carnage had another purpose. The advance of the first echelon had never been meant to rival the fairy army, even though its numbers matched them. It was merely a probing attack, a first toss of the dice to reveal the other player's hand. Frond had not failed to show to extent of his power, and had begun the laying of his grand strategy. Sargon saw it, and knew what the old elf was thinking. Now he knew how to proceed.
Nevertheless, even though the first attack had given Sargon valuable information, it was a blow to his army's morale. Upon seeing the complete ruin of their divisions, a ripple of uncertainty went through the human ranks, and the air became dense with fear. But none of the warriors gathered believed in running away, not when cowardice would only give the fairies even more room to continue their ways. No, fear would not have its way this day. Far stronger than it was anger and hatred, coupled with a thirst for violence. Indeed, they wanted blood, and now that they had witnessed the massacre of their brothers, they wanted it so much more. Sargon knew this, and in fact had anticipated it. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices, and feel it in the air. It was a mass darkness welling up within the hearts of men, and it would dull their perception of fear and pain all the more. It would make them terrifying warriors.
Looking across the battlefield, with his commanders waiting on his orders, the general studied the fairy ranks. His brow furrowed, and the undulations of his countenance were accentuated by the sun directly above. He could still see Frond, as dazzling as ever in his filigreed armor, and the proportions of the enemy ranks seemed the same at first. But Sargon had a good eye, and he saw that the fairy divisions had loosened their ranks a little to appear the same in size from his viewpoint. In reality there were a few thousand fairies missing, from the flanks of the army, and that meant that they had moved under the cover of the smoke. It came as no surprise to Sargon, and in fact it coincided with his perception of Frond's plan. Indeed, it was quite predictable. What should he do in response? That was also simple. He would continue as before, and play along with the elf's strategy until the right moment. After all, deception was the art of war. Let them strike, let them win. Make them believe that they can have victory, and then, like closing a tunnel behind a grave robber whose success seemed all but assured, cut off their hope completely.
He would continue to observe Frond's forces and their actions, for one could infer their enemy's weaknesses from observing their strengths; their surpluses from observing their deficiencies. And from there strategy would change, for indeed there was no invariable strategy in war that could be relied upon at all times. There was no constant victor, not at all; of the four seasons, none holds a constant position, the days are short and long, and the moon waxes and wanes.
Upon the completion of his thoughts, General Acaed Sargon kept his eyes on the enemy, and spoke in a calm, charismatic voice. "We shall avenge our brothers, and sate their fallen spirits with the blood of our enemies. Proceed as planned."
His commanders nodded resolutely, and upon their orders a ripple of activity swept through the front third of the army. Drums rolled, banners waved, and shouts rose. With these sounds as their harbinger, five full echelons surged forward, fifty-thousand strong. Other smaller groups, which were over the hills a distance from the battlefield, heard the signals and began as well. Sargon observed calmly, and with perfect accuracy his eyes fell upon the forests to his left, where the foliage was thick and obscuring. His army would have to march around the pits, therefore close to the woodlands on either side of the battlefield. It was far too obvious. Without any perceptible worry, the man turned to his signals officer, and told him to relay a message to his eleventh battalion.
"Burn them all."
Author's Note:
There will be much more action and faster pacing in the coming chapters. I will be updating this story whenever I have ample time, so it may not be as regular as my previous ones. I will finish it, I promise! Thanks for reading!