Glade of the Kings
Drycha was one of the first to enter the Glade of Kings proper. It was magic, a clear sky and a pale sun shone on the pristine whiteness of snow. She saw the meager forces arrayed before her and knew of the tide of green hatred that swelled behind her. The Treekin that made up most of them had been imprisoned for so long and their hate had grown with every passing year. The last time they had taken too long, the last time they had arrived at a time when Ariel could still wake up in time. Not now, now she was in the deepest of sleeps, one she would never wake up from. And the Dryads that listened to her, they would fight for themselves for the first time in a long time. Not fighting to protect those arrogant Elves who presumed to mold the Forest to their liking. She would cleanse them from Athel Loren so that the Gestalt that was the holy forest would belong to their kind again.
She saw the thrice-damned Asrai on the other side of the Glade. They were readying their bows, they would unleash them soon. That would be unpleasant to say the least, the poisons would not hurt the Forest Spirits much, but the arrows would hurt many and kill a few of their sisters. And while any Spirit she cared to name would gladly sacrifice herself for the cause, the Treekin had decided to spare them. The mightiest Treemen advanced at the front, their thick trunks would swallow whatever the Asrai could dish out till the Dryads were among them. Even before they would be amongst the enemy they would spread fear among them. They had not respected the Green, not really, and now vengeful giants were about to teach them.
The steps of Coeddil the Mighty seemed slow and stiff, but they ate up the distance as fast as Drycha could run. She would be among her enemies in a minute and then she could have such fun. She was looking for the Wood Elf she would tear apart when a series of explosions made her look at the ancient Treemen in front with horror.
On the Glade of Kings
Walter Theodric St. Helier watched the fireworks with professional appreciation. The Dragoons he had founded had never been a stand-fast-an-take-it force and the Stormtroopers were neither. They laughed at the idea of honorable combat and would do what it took to win. Like burying the latest toys from Pierre Laval`s gifted madmen under the snow and into the hallowed ground. Ten kilograms of an explosive that resembled Dynamite if one did not look too closely threw up the contents of several Jerrycans worth of gelled fuel. The explosions had broken the wooden legs placed on them and had thrown their owners forward where momentum brought them. By the time they were on the ground they were covered with burning fuel that would not leave them, no matter how much they trashed about.
They made up a splendid barrier that kept their brethren back and probably would not do whatever went for their morale any good. It was hard to judge such an inhuman foe, but there seemed to be a lot of chaos in their ranks. And yet there was a Treeman, even taller than his towering kind, who seemed to radiate calm and order. If Walter was not wrong he tried to push them to circumvent the conflagration before them and that would not do. And he was the guy who had to do something about it. Neither his Webley revolver nor his sword would be of any help here, but Pierre had been so nice to give him something better. He would have loved to try it next campaign season, it looked like the fun part would start a bit earlier.
"Driver, forward. Get us close to these and then go left as close to these trees as possible to that end of the glade, then come back here."
"Oui mon Capitane."
Now things would become seriously dangerous. Jean had been a Paris taxi driver before the Weltensprung. His ideas about safe driving were different from those of most people. He got "Golden Hinde" into gear and despite its heavy load the old Land Rover accelerated well enough. The guys in Solithull had done a swell job on the offroad car, but it could not bring a weapon to combat the ancient Treemen. Not by its own. The trailer that followed the car seemed inconsequential and small. A couple of hoses connected the vehicles and terminated in the contraption before Walter. It contained parts of a fire hose and less identifiable bits, among them a brass lever. Walter turned the nozzle to the right, vaguely in the direction of the huge Treemen before pulling that lever all the way towards him.
He opened a valve that pushed lots of nitrogen in a tank that held a mixture of diesel and other stuff. The pressure threatened welds done a few days before and pushed copious amounts of fuel through the nozzle. They arced up before coming down on the green stuff that moved when it should not and caused an inferno. The flamethrower gave off a throaty roar while it spewed flaming death at anything within range. More Treemen were set ablaze and the stream of fire got to those Dryads who wanted to help their big brothers somehow. Many ran around in panic and spread the death that claimed them.
Walter saw that it was good and planned for another run as soon as targets showed up.
Below the World Oak
Silva ad` Garrolin watched the scene before her with horror. The Glade of Kings had been of pristine whiteness, a melancholy place with the dignity of a graveyard only a day before. Now it was home to numerous fires, smoke started to sully the snow nearby and living wood was burning in many places. Dryads ran around, aflame and screaming while Treemen who had lived longer than Elves were in Athel Loren burned like so much kindling. And all these horrors were enacted at her behest, at defending what had remained of hearth and home. Now she understood, at the gut level, why Ottokar Proktor had the "real" Rebels flown in. They were certainly not a replacement for Reiksbund forces, even if they were not to be taken lightly. Still, they would have a hard time outfighting a similar number of Asrai. But they would also not be cowed by ancient alliances and rules that would see Athel Loren die.
And what they did not do her lover certainly did. He had lost a lot of people slowing down the Forest Spirits to the point where the Rebels could arrive and prepare their defenses. Their blood had paid for more Asrai warriors to arrive and for an assured last stand to become a massacre with outcome nobody could predict. And neither he nor his people had stopped fighting now that they had arrived at the scene of the final battle. There were sounds like ripping cloth from the place where his warriors made their stand. Their otherworldly guns reached out and ripped through the Forest Spirits that somehow skirted the huge pile-up in the middle. There were deeper booms that she knew to be the signature of his personal rifle and a Fire Mage plied his trade.
She closed her mind to the mundane and entered the realms of the Empyrean that she dared to. Others had offered the Asrai a chance to defend their gods, she would not be found wanting.
On the Glade of Kings
The old Land Rover swayed under Walter like mad, throwing him into the rails that enclosed his position. The trailer behind him jumped alarmingly and St. Helier's skin had reddened with the furnace heat that radiated from the conflagration before him. He felt none of it. Adrenaline surged through his veins and allowed him to function despite all of that. So far things worked out well enough, the Treemen who tried to emulate a battering ram were now a burning roadblock. Flames rose higher than some trees around and nothing had broken through all of that which the defenders could not handle. He scanned the ends of the line for anything that might try to outflank the fire when something roused the flames even higher. Something huge pushed through the flames, throwing glowing chunks all over the glade. Behind that explosion a giant parted the flames. Towering over the other Treemen like an adult over children the giant Treeman burned in several places. If this hampered him in any way he did not give any sign of it, but his hate and his need for revenge bridged all language and species barriers. He stepped forward with a space eating gait that surprised Walter and his driver. Before they could take any action, the world started to turn around them like mad before there was only darkness.
In the shadow of the World Oak
Pierre Troisieme saw Walter's chariot upend itself when something huge hit it. It had been like a dragon a minute before, running the line of the enemy and burning all with his wrath. He wanted to run to it, to see if he could help, but his orders said differently. His orders said to hold the line and it looked like the Stormtroopers had their work cut out for them. Behind the burning giant scores of Forest Spirits emerged from the gap and filled into the Glade. They ran into arrows that crossed the Glade in seconds. Some fell, more stumbled, most kept running straight at the World Oak.
They did not run long before the Wild Hunt charge met theirs. Pierre had no love of cavalry, but his hopes rode with that one. The Asrai had charged in a wedge, riding faster than any horse could and than sanity allowed. They rode at a speed that should have broken any formation and still their lines remained closed. Pierre would never forget the sound of the two forces merging. There were cries of victory and anguish, whining Stags and commands. Above all was the sound of splintering wood, of things destroyed and Spirits released. The Wild Hunt converted the momentum of their charge into a nasty attack that lent their spears additional power. The charge broke cleanly through the Dryad mob and left them reeling. The Asrai managed to reform on the other side of the Glade and started another attack. This one had to be slower as there was less space to accelerate. The crash was still there, dozens of Dryads trampled under hooves, split upon spears or hacked apart by swords. This time they were nearly slowed to a stop inside the mass of Dryads and Treekin. This time Elves were pulled from their steeds and ripped apart, this time they barely emerged at the other side of the enemy.
The Wild Hunt had done great, they had fought an enemy who outnumbered them many times, who knew no fear and little pain. They had killed far more than they had lost and now they were about to run out of space. The next time they would attack they would fight on equal terms and that could only end one way. And they had brought the milling mass of Dryads to a stop, even for the briefest of moments. The Rebels were not going to waste that.
"Tirez"
Pierre pulled one trigger, brought his shotgun down from its recoil and then went for the other one. Hundreds of slugs went downrange in the space of a few seconds, and they were felt for sure. They were heavy pieces of lead, traveling far faster than any arrow ever shot. They did not need to conform to any rifling, so they were soft and deformed once they hit something hard. By the time they had tunneled through a Dryad they were nearly palm sized and the holes they left truly impressive. Pierre did not look for any results, he was too busy ripping open his gun and inserting two new cartridges. He brought the shotgun back to the shoulder and got off the next shots at a Treekin that was definitely too close for comfort. It would not get any closer though. By the time he had reloaded there were no longer coordinated salvos, there was a surf of single shots that went into the milling Forest Spirits like a scythe going through grass. When Pierre reloaded he looked at the two Molotovs at his feet. They were the first weapons he had ever used in his life and if he had to use these they would be the last as well.
Below the World Oak
Silva ad` Garolin looked at the same battle as her compatriots and yet she did not. While they looked at light reflected by physical things and would only see what was not occluded by something else she saw souls. And she saw many of them. The familiar twinkle of Asrai souls, the different lights of the humans who had joined their fights and the dim glow of her gods. She also saw the sea of lights that were the Forest Spirits and the blazing flames that were the ancient Treemen. Silva saw the thin line of defenders, she saw the desperation of the enemy at the choke point. And above all she saw the vast mass of enemy behind that, a sea of lights that was going to crash into a tiny dam of humans and Asrai. That choke-point was about to vanish soon and needed to be plugged again if her people were to have any chance at all. She needed something, anything to help with that. And she found something, a light currently doused that would be snuffed out if she did not interfere. She closed her mind to all the other things that went on around her and concentrated. She guided the energies of the Empyrean where they needed to go and shaped them to her liking for a few endless seconds. When she came back up she was no longer looking at a myriad of lights, they were all occluded by a single, vast one. The being represented by the light saw her, saw everything she was, everything she had been and everything that she might become. Silva shivered.
On the Glade of Kings
Walther Theodoric St. Helier was about to die. He had been thrown from his Land Rover with sufficient force that his brain had been concussed. He would wake up in 15 minutes or so, having no memories of what had happened, a few bruises, bumps and a mountain-sized headache. That was, he would wake up if his tongue would not have moved and currently blocked his trachea. The way things were he would choke before he could wake up while a battle raged all around him. And then things were no longer that way. He woke up with a start and while he felt every bruise and cut on his body his mind was clear. A few meters from him Treemen were using trunks and their dead brethren to push through the fiery barrier that he had helped to erect. One of them, a giant even in this company, was still smoldering and seemed to direct and exhort them. Walter could have wasted time trying to figure out what would have happened. He could have tried to find a way out. That was not why he was here and that was not what he was about to do. Instead he looked for a way to hurt the enemy with a revolver, a sword and a couple of hand grenades. In most other circumstances he could have taken down more than a few enemies with him, but this was neither the place nor the time for that. He was about to mosey away when he saw what needed doing.
He pulled the grenade from his belt, pulled the cord and threw it before dropping into the snow. For a few long seconds nothing happened, then a few grams of picric acid released what energy was stored in their chemical bonds. Most of that energy was captured by the fuel tank that Walter`s Land Rover had pulled all over the battlefield. The vapors inside exploded readily enough and the combined shockwave was easily enough to cover the Treemen around it with burning fuel. Trees are usually a silent bunch, even this kind was usually not loud. Now they filled the air with their agony.
Walter used the confusion gained to get going. He had done what needed doing, no use in risking his slightly used English body by staying around. He moved on in a direction that seemed to offer safety. It did not, but Silva thought she needed him to be there before she had been taken out of things for the moment.
Below the World Oak
Silva watched the effects of Walter's improvised bomb from the Empyrean. It had snuffed out many treacherous Treekin and sown confusion where Coeddil was about to restore order. She nudged the mind of Meister Kreuger, her lover's Fire Mage. He took her hint well and pushed the fire into something bigger, something that would threaten the Forest Spirits. Aeolus had given her this chance and her throat constricted for a moment when she thought about what she was to do. She would…not. It had taken her long enough, it had been masked by the chaos and the dying. She needed to stop this, she needed to make sure Athel Loren and her gods survived. She just hoped that the means she choose would be enough.
On the Glade
There was fire all around Robert de Grail, smoke enough to choke an army, heat to roast a herd of oxen and Forest Spirits in the depth of battle madness who would probably kill any human they saw, be he friend or foe. None of these were the thing most likely to kill the Grail Knight. He carried the relic on his back ever since this battle started and it would kill him. Actually, it would have killed him quite some time ago and in some ways it already had. His lungs were still drawing air, his heart still pumped blood. All of that would have stopped quite some time ago if his goddess would not have supported him. And she supported him by wearing him like a sleeve. And a body that contained the Lady would not have any other mind in charge. Robert was there, but he could hardly do anything the Lady did not want to.
No matter who was at the wheel, he had to be quick on his feet. All around him pandemonium reigned. Huge Treemen ran around, roaring their pain and setting aflame everything that was in their way. The enemy made themselves known in ways the Lady had not foreseen and had to be avoided. So, clad in Rebel`s clothes the Grail Knight tried to avoid any confrontation and being noticed by anybody. The Lady helped herself by cladding the body she used in a spell that pushed the sight from any observer' s mind. They would see him alright, but they would not consciously perceive him. As long as he did nothing stupid he should be able to make his way around the Glade and hammer the spike into the World Oak.
He made his way around a burned-out Treekin when he ran into something hard. He needed a second to regain his footing and then saw the human who was as surprised as he was. For a fleeting moment Robert was not sure if he looked at Man or Dawi. The face was framed by long brown hair and a beard, both with some ginger and gray in it. The features said Man, the stocky, short figure said Dawi. Whatever the being was, he had dropped a weapon into the snow during the collision and now drew a sword. It was a curious thing, long and thin, like the blade a Tilean duelist might use. The man moved back a half-step which made Robert`s fast lunge miss. He had to regain balance after that and by the time he found it there was a blade between him and his enemy.
If the Grail Knight would have been in his old plate armor he would have laughed at the weapon and felt confident in his chain mail. He was wearing neither, he was clad in the cloth-armor and cuirass the Rebels preferred and that might be a different story. The blade that met his own was far stiffer than he expected and not easily pushed aside. Instead the human before him lunged back as soon as his sword no longer aimed for his face. Robert managed to catch the blade on his cross-piece, turned his hand and pushed aside. The human had to retreat while drawing his weapon back before it could break.
