DISCLAIMER: I do not own the franchises I based my writing upon.
"FOR ULTHUAN!"
"DEATH TO THE FOE!" The elven soldiers roared in response, surer now of the inevitability of their victory. Soon the human's front lines crossed an invisible line, and Hawkeye Silvia lays out adjustments. "The wind is with us, blowing moderately east! Range is three-hundred and fifty yards, adjust!" Bowstrings were pulled taut, five hundred arrows ready to be sent soaring to their targets. A moment was given before Silvia shouted "Loose!", and five hundred deadly missiles were sent arcing over the wall. Below the attackers shouted alarms in their barbaric tongue, many slowing down as they raised their shields or hid behind others for cover and soon, they were subjected to a hail of arrows. Many were felled, screams of pain ringing out as shields failed or arms faltered, and many were left wounded or dead on the ground with arrows piercing their bodies. The ranks following the mobile barricades were deliberately targeted, the commanders seeing them a waste of arrows when there are more targets beyond them. Silvia then gave them the order to fire by rank, to maintain a continuous rain of arrows to tire out the humans as they had to keep their shields up, lest they become a pincushion of arrows. Then the pair of Eagle bolt throwers in towers by the gates joined in, shooting single wall-destroying shots at the barricades. The men carrying the targeted barricades were either killed or forced to leave behind their shield as it was rendered useless. Yet still a second wave follow behind, with more barricades being brought forward.
But the humans won't let themselves be shot with impunity, for there were enough barriers placed down some eighty yards from the wall. Close enough for their archers to start sending their own volleys up at the fort, the humans aiming at what few armoured figures they see standing at the top. Five hundred archers armed with short bows let fly their own missiles, angered by the losses by the cowards hiding behind their pretty wall. Their skill, however, are not up to par with the elves, many hitting the wall or the ground beyond it, but enough made it up and over the wall. Spearmen raised their towering shields to block what missiles reached them, arrows futilely bouncing off and leaving only scratches on the surface. The archers however, were more vulnerable as a small number of them were hit by chance, necessitating their removal from the field to the healer's tents. It was only fortunate that less than a dozen were outright slain, for now.
The battle went on this way for some time, Asur and human archers exchanging volleys and barricades ruined by bolt then replaced by another soon after. Then an hour in, Asur sentries saw the humans bringing up ladders, their intentions obvious. "Incoming ladders!" The Sentinel on the wall shouted, "Prepare to repell the enemy!" More spear-elves and archers were sent up to reinforce the wall, Lord Arlendil and Lady Silvia leading their troops as they lined up. With a clearer sight of their targets, the archers immediately started focusing on the ladder carriers and felling many, the spearmen left either waiting for the enemy to reach them or working to protect the archers with their shields. At this point of the battle, elven mages were sent up the walls, with orders to destroy the line of barricades or just redducec their number. The mages uttered short chants and aimed their spells at their targets and soon a barrage of fireballs, lightning bolts and winds of blades was launched towards the Ironborn.
FWOOOOSH!
KRRAACK!
BOOM!
"Fucking witches! We are being invaded by an army of bloody witches come alive!" Garold roared in shocked anger, watching as huge gaps in his barricades were blown apart or sliced by blades that cannot be seen to pieces. The ones hit by fireballs fared better, clouds of steam coming having been created from the instant drying of the wood, but the same cannot be said for the ones using them for cover, the extreme heat burning them and even killing the ironborn. All along the frontline the men were panicking and running away, the others being frozen in uncertainty and fear. Qarlton looked at him with panicked eyes, gesturing madly at the site of such devastation. "Wh-what are we going to do, milord?!" He asked, his voice laden with fear. "We can't fight an army of witches, and the men are dying!" The others looked to him too, and Garold could see in their eyes the urge to flee winning against their loyalty to him. He seethed, trying to come think of a path forward that wont't lead to him being labeled a coward by the other houses of the Iron Islands, and especially not by his 'fellow' cadet houses of Goodbrother. He was slowly descending into desperation when he saw a faint light coming from his left hand. Looking down he saw the carved runes on his horn glowing with deep blue light, growing stronger seconds pass. One man spoke out from somewhere behind him, "The Drowned God has made his will known..." and with his words, reverent whispers turned to fervent chanting, "Goodbrother!", "Drowned God is with us!" and "What is dead may never die!" being taken up by the men. The fear was forgotten, squashed by faith and the affirmation of their deity's favour. But what about the rest of the army?
With newfound determination fueled by faith, Garold placed the warhorn on his lips, and with one deep breath he blew the horn!
"The enemy are shaken, Dragon Prince." Falandris said, gesturing at the map before him. Spectral figures shifted and moved on the detailed map, mimicking the real time movements of all the combatants in the field, all possible through the skill and power of Falandris and his summoned ethereal owls. "Soon, they shall quit the field and the Silver Helms can go and run roughshod all over the remnants." His eyes give out a soft blue glow as he speaks, tendrils magic stretching from an open hand pointed on the map. Lord Aslan rode towards them, slowing to a stop a few yards from the platform as he called out to Harrond.
"Dragon Prince!" He raised his lance in salute as he stoped fully. "The savages are one charge from fleeing like prey before the lion! Give the order, lord, and the Silver Helms will-"
AHOOOOOOooooooooooooooooo...
A horn sounded in the night, long and low, the noise loud enough to drown out the sounds of combat, and for a brief moment the elves were stunned.
The magic of the map flickered, drawing a look of shock and a near silent gasp from Falandris. On the walls mages stumbled or even lost their footing entirely and falling to the ground, the strain of casting magic suddenly doubling again from the already increased difficulty. By the gates Archmage Ranrie was forced to end her spell prematurely, her concentration thoroughly ruined by whatever that warhorn did. From beyond, the screams of panic and fear was replaced by those of eagerness and a zealous wrath, the humans evidently inspired by the magics of the horn. Fear was forgotten entirely, and men made a mad dash for the walls, no matter how many died to the elven archers now shooting faster, and soon enough the first handful of ladders were planted against the wall. But that wasn't the end of it, no.
Silvia was shooting arrows at the men carrying ladders when she witnessed a shocking sight, that of a man who she was sure was dead getting up and taking the place of the one she shot, holding on to the ladder despite recieving more arrows, his eyes glowing an eerie yellow. "Dark magic!" She cried, "Beware! The dead are rising again!"
"Hold them back!" A Sentinel shouted, spearing in the head an enemy that climbed the ladder. "Stand fast, sons and daughters of Aenarion!" Hatchets were brought up to destroy the ladders, but slowly the number of ladders being raised were outpaced the ones the Asur managed to destroy or push back. Soon enough, the archers and mages were forced to retreat down the walls. Many men that reached the top died to spear and sword, but then the undead started acting as vanguards, ignoring mortal wounds when attacked and even pushed themselves through spearshafts to get to their wielders. Though rarely succeeding, they nonetheless accomplished their purpose as a number of humans reached over the parapets and closed with the Asur. "SPEARMEN! By demi-companies, form squares!" Arlendil ordered his forces, beheading three men at once while doing so. "Commence steady retreat down the wall!"
"WE OBEY!" With speedy efficiency the Asur closed ranks, shields locked and spears stabbing at the enemy as they marched in lockstep, a vast difference to the wild shoving and pushing done by the human warriors as they tried to get stuck in with the elves.
"NAEMIRINIR! TO ME!" Harrond called his mount to him, as well as sending mental impressions of haste and danger. He stands there now, shield and burning blade at hand with his guards behind him, watching and waiting for a place that needs him to intervene. Archers continue to shoot at the enemy on the wall, well aimed arrows stabbing deep into torsos and limbs, but the human undead are beginning to outnumber their live brethren, rising with each enemy slain unless they were beheaded. That fact was spread quickly when discovered, and many spearmen had drawn swords to permanently reduce the number of enemy combatants, slicing and hacking away limbs more often than not. Companies continue to retreat towards the stairs and downwards, reaping a terrible toll on the enemy that were their minds not clouded with mad courage, they would have long since fled already. But no, they continue to rush at shield walls and dying in numbers, rising again when they were yet to do so already. They too had inflicted losses on the elves, their utter lack of fear for death giving them more ways to inflict harm and their numbers give them advantage with their utter lack of skill. For an elf can parry, block and riposte several strikes at once but there will always be that one strike to make it past their defense.
A single stairway to the north of the gates was left untravelled, the spearmen at the top being forced to fight their way to another path down. There a large group of enemy warriors rushed down, those alive screaming in their crude tongue as they charged at a company of archers. They would've had to fight past another wall of spearmen guarding the path and they do not care, eager as they were to kill.
Then the Silver Helms announced their presence with the high horn of the Asur, Eagle-helmed Aslan leading the charge as thirty of the finest cavalry the world has ever seen smashed through the human warriors, elven knights lancing up to five men before they were forced to drop their lances and draw swords, becoming whirlwinds of shimmering death. Their steeds, excellently trained and fine examples of their species fought as one with their riders, moving with nary a tug on the reins or a spoken command as they fearlessly carried their riders through the midst of combat. When the knight is slashing the foes at the front, the horse kicks at the enemy sneaking behind, showacasing the unity of elf and horse. Such was their prowess that the Silver Helms quickly finished off their opponents less than a handful of minutes since they charged, the three dozen or so human warriors lanced, slashed and trampled into gory pieces. They galloped off, awaiting another breakthrough of the enemy that they may in turn trample into the ground.
Harrond saw all this, Farlandis by his side as he finally gave up on maintaining the magic on the map, seeing no more use for it since the battle has took a more chaotic turn. Then finally Naemirinir arrived, followed by Kardraghnir and the other flying forces. His mount spews a blast of fire at a large concentration of the enemy on the wall, burning a number into ash before she landed nearby Harrond. Kardraghnir has flown elsewhere to his own rider, breathing fire at massed groups of humans on his way.
He raced to his mount, not before commanding his guards to aid Lord Arlandis in defense, and leaving Farlandis to do what he deems necessary. The last he saw before he lifted off was his guard marching in lockstep towards the buckling gates, and Farlandis going towards Archmage Ranrie attempting another spell, his greatsword drawn and sending his pointing his fellow Loremasters to different locations, likely more critical sites of battle. Then he was up.
From his higher vantage point he saw past the fog of war hiding much the ongoings of the battle. The walls are almost entirely lost, only a few companies of spearmen remain trapped by the horde, reaping a fearsome tally on the enemy yet gradually losing still. The human warriors are now clashing with the spearmen holding the ground before the wall, defending the archers and mages as they let loose with deadly missiles and the mages' spells, though weakened still destroy, burn or mutilate dozens per cast. Someone managed to cast Flaming Sword of Ruin on the archers, enhancing their arrows with magical flame that every arrow hit set their targets on fire. He then felt something... a build up of Qhaysh where the archmage was, and there below he saw Ranrie standing atop a glowing circle, staff raised as the magic peaked.
And with a shout, she slammed her staff down and a dome of blue light spread outwards and across the field. When an elf was touched by the the light, an aura of similar light briefly covered them before settling down. "Shield of Saphery." Harrond recalled the spell's name, one where the attacks by enemy warriors on every Asur soldier becomes enfeebled. Arrows, swords, spear and axe, robbed of all strength at the mage's command. But dark magic still affects even the powerful archmage, adding with the effects of the weak winds of the land that the shield only negated half of the damage but not all. Despite the weakened effect, the shield has granted the Asur a greater advantage,
the spearmen companies trapped on the walls now able to push their way out at a decent pace. All along the embattled lines, the martial excellence of the Asur showed with a carpet of permanently slain enemies growing faster now that the mindless strength of the undead were reduced, making it easier to deal with them now. Rangers were interspersed along the wall of spears, dual swords flashing in the night as limbs and heads were sent flying. Silver Helms performed cycle charges on the flanks to the north and south, guarding against the enemy's attempts to envelope the elves, and the aerial forces brought over by the general were letting their presence felt by their Eagle Eye bolt throwers firing clutches of lesser bolts cutting down warriors clumped together, especially targetting the ladders with the gates yet to fall. General Marcus was leading them, shouting target locations to the Skycutters crew as he rode his griffon, every now and then swooping down with a piercing shriek, rider and mount cutting and disemboweling with lance, beak and claw. Kardraghnir and Dragon Princess Neruna had long since joined them as well, the Sun Dragon strafing the men on the walls with streams of dragonfire, killed dozens and more as they flew past.
Harrond's attention was then drawn by a large group of humans rushing from the forest, a large man with relatively finer armament leading them. It would appear the final wave has arrived. "We go my friend!" He pointed his lance at the group at the mass of targets. "Tonight, this new land will feel the burning wrath of Caledor!" Naemirinir roared with him, sparks of flame now spurting from the dragon's maw as they closed with the enemy. The men below pointed at them, shouting in their crude language as they began to scatter, but it was too late!
"Khaine take you, wretched fools!" He shouted as Naemirinir unleashed a blinding stream of flame, burning hundreds of men to ash with a single pass. The Dragon Prince beckoned his mount to loop around again, breathing lines of flame on the field and killing hundreds more as walls of dragonfire burned across the field.
The gates were finally smashed open when Garold, the only survivor of the Dragon Prince's strike, made it there. He is beyond enraged at this point, the enemy killing his ambitions and ruining plans with every attack they thwarted. Every man he lost here is one he couldn't use in future raids, and the absolute destruction of his almost the entirety of his army making his losses something he absolutely cannot recover in a lifetime.
"These foreigners!" He seethed aloud, pushing and shoving, and even killing, his way past the mass of reavers to the front. "They have ruined everything! A thousand curses I cast upon this army of witches and dragons..." He is nearing the front now, the cacophony of steel on steel and torn flesh growing louder with every step.
Newfound strength began to fill his body, more than he ever had as he began to outright throw men out of his way, sending them crashing or flying into their fellows as he began to charge. "I'LL HAVE VENGEANCE WITH EVERY BLOODY CORPSE! DROWNED GOD BE MY WITNESS AS I TEAR THEM APART!" He roared, eyes glowing a sickly yellow as he charged. He ran past the others, now seeing the enemy up close for the first time. Tall shields, tall helmets, and tall in stature, a bristling wall of weapons reaching out towards him atop a carpet of the dead and dying. But he will not be stopped. With a roar he lunged, enhanced strength letting him break the wall get stuck in amongst the enemy, great axe swinging in deadly arcs as he maimed and killed the ones nearest to him and ignored the cuts and stab wounds he recieved in turn. "DIE!" He shouted as he viciously chopped at some soldier's head, hearing bones crack as his blow sent the man's head back too fast and too far. When the others tried to surround him, he grasped his weapon by the very end and spun, smashing spears and shields and driving them back, before he charged again, aiming to kill more.
But on the verge of reaching them though he was forced to a sudden stop by a blade suddenly appearing from thin air and slicing towards his neck. If he hadn't managed to block it at the last second he surely would have had his throat sliced open along with his arms. The near-death momentarily brought his mind out from the blood rage it succumbed to, his gaze darting to his right and there he saw the wielder.
This one is dressed more fancily than the already fancy standard of the footsoldiers, with more robes and a bright red cape, all with gold bordering. His armor was white, strange letters scattered around and glowing blue with their blasted magics, and his helmet was also stupidly tall, like every other invader's. Garold can see his face through open-faced helm, and the bastard's cool expression made him even more angry. He bashed away the man's greatsword, then stood watching as the man backed away, pointing his greatsword at him. "Bastard ponce! I'll chop your cock off and feed it to your bitch of a mother, so fight me you cunt!" He taunted him as advanced on a possibe noble leading this army, he can't be fully sure because all the soldiers he'd seen and killed look like nobles, all looking the same and wearing armor fit for a greenlander knight. The man dodged one of Garold's attacks and then blocked his following swing, the two fighters momentarily pushing against each other before the man looked Garold in the eyes and spat at him. "Cunt." He then called Garold. The Ironborn's vision turned red from sheer outrage.
"RAAAAARGH!" With a surge of strength, he launched a kick at the man Garold was aiming to rip to pieces, the bastard managing to block with his greatsword. The Ironborn was deep in a berserk fury, throwing out attacks with wild abandon as he chased after the bastard retreating from his mindless onslaught. Every miss infuriated him, every parry and redirection another curse and on it went, until suddenly the bastard finally retaliated with a lightning-fast thrust to his face. Garold grunted, putting the head of his axe in front of his face, but the blow never came. 'A feint!' he thought, eyes widening but before he could even move his axe slightly, a silvery white blur went through his wrists. White-hot pain surged up his arms and he cried in rage and fear as his hands went flying away, still holding on to the axe as it fell into the ground. He fell onto his knees still staring in disbelief at his severed limbs, not noticing the greatsword swinging for his neck.
Falandris wiped away the blood on his blade, staring with disgust at the corpse lying in several pieces at his feet. "An excellent showing as usual, Loremaster." Archmage Ranrie congratulated him, having been nearby when she saw him lead the warrior out from the lines of spearmen and into an open area, keeping the berserk human's attention on him all the while. Falandris only shook his head at her words though. "He had great strength and speed but barely any skill wielding his weapon." He replied, giving the dead man a disdainful look. "Were he not carrying that warhorn the foot soldiers could have handled him in time." He explained while moving his gaze towards the large warhorn, curved in shape and carved with figures and shapes in what must have been the language of the humans here, faintly glowing with a blue so dark it edges onto black. Beyond the realm of raelity, his other-sight can see the tendrils of power reaching out from the object, dividing into strands looking thicker than spider silk as it reached out to what must be every human fighting in the battle. The archmage noticed it as well, levitating it up for a closer look and peering at it with her own sight. "The feeling of the magic, it feels almost... divine in origin, yet twisted in madness. Very similar to what we felt during that first day." She shared her findings to Falandris, having come to the same conclusion himself. "I have felt the same. Have you a method to dispell it?" He asked her. "I admit, to my shame, that I have neglected the higher levels of study of the divine, that though I can discern whether a magical phenomenon is divine in origin, dispelling this, weak and reduced in potency as it is? I know a starting point but any further than that and I will fail." Ranrie maintained a cool expression but the smugness in her eyes cannot be hidden from him as she began to concentrate her will and energies to begin her work. "It would seem even the master has more yet to learn." She remarked, tendrils of Qhaysh billowing around her and beginning to encircle the warhorn.
"Hahahaha! Is that all you've got, you men of these blighted lands?!" Aslan cried with wild joy, hacking and slashing with his blade at the enemy attacking him with insane disregard for their own wellbeing. And even if they managed to get past his slashes or his shield, their strikes would be nullified by the Shield of Saphery cast upon the entire Asur army, reducing injuring blows to weak punches from a sailor who drank way too much. All around him his brethren carved away at the enemy's numbers, sword and lance slaying a blow with every swing, their peerless skill at arms way beyond the wild flailing of the fools blinded in zealous wrath. Always they shouted in their lowly speech even with a lance pierced through their bowels or a sword takes a limb, requiring a sure death to silence them forever. It is vexing then, that unless they were literally bereft of head or all limbs, they will rise again so their mounts have to crush them with hoof.
He cut a man trying to grab his leg diagonally in half, the two pieces falling away as he moved on, seeking the company signalman to sound the high horn for the company to fall back. They have had their fun, now its the others' turn to battle and theirs to rest. "Elonir!" He shouted over to the elf, his mount leaping over some errant barrels. "Signal the company to fall back! It's time to-"
From out of the blue, a feeling of burden unnoticed was lifted from his spirit and he suddenly felt even better than before! Before he could even remark upon it, the humans before him started wailing in despair, the mad courage seeming to have deserted them at last. Those that didn't just collapse like stringless puppets started fleeing anywhere and everywhere that does not lead towards the Asur, clambering over each other in a desperate haste to get away. Aslan certainly won't miss this opportunity, and retracted his previous orders. "Belay that, sound the pursuit! The enemy won't get away from our wrath so easily!" The signalman nodded, grabbing the horn with bis shield hand, and blowing a certain note and pattern to signal the pursuit. The sound rallied the Silver Helms to the various banners and behind Aslan, his horse rearing as he pointed his sword at the shattered foe. "Further glory awaits, noble scions! Chaaarge!"
"FOR THE PHOENIX THRONE!"
In one great wedge the Silver Helms charged, thundering towards the enemy, lances slowly lowering the closer they get to their unfortunate foe.
The Ironborn have been utterly shattered, fleeing in every direction possible to escape the host of Asur, but only few would make it back to the forest. With the pressure lifted from them, the spearmen advanced and chased after the fleeing foe, putting down as many as they could catch which is a lot, considering they could still run fast in full armor. The rangers went ahead of them with dual blades flashing and leaving behind dismembered corpses.
The Skycutters were being brought to land now that the battle is over to replenish their spent ammunition while the general remains ahead with the troops, the two Dragon lords and their mounts cutting off avenues of escape with walls of flame.
It is still dark, around two hours has passed since the Ironborn launched their attack. And the Asur has triumphed over the enemy, despite the odds increasing against throughout the battle. Their spirits has soared and their conviction that, come what may, in the end victory will always belong to the High Elves cemented in their hearts.
A.N. : Whew, this chapter has gone on long enough I say. Coming up next is the aftermath, and the High Elves plans of retaliation.
In addition, I am very sorry for the prologue and chap. I being the same. It was a mistake I surely should not have missed, and have now fixed. Thank you Kukuhimanpr for pointing it out!