Douglas Niles: The Kinslayer Wars

In the back of Kith’s mind, something whispered a warning. This had to be a trick, he told himself. Certainly the arrows hadn’t been thick and deadly enough to halt that awe-inspiring charge. Less than fifty riders, and no more than two dozen horses, lay in the field before them. His scouts had given him a good count of the human cavalry. Though he had not been able to study these, he suspected he had seen only about half the force.

“Our men fall back as you ordered,” reported Suzine, her eyes locked upon the violent images in her mirror. The glass rested on a table, and she sat before it—table, woman, and mirror, all encased in a narrow shroud of canvas, to keep the daylight from the crucial seeing device. She never lost view of the elven commander who sat straight and proud in his saddle, every inch the warrior of House Royal.

Behind her, pacing in taut excitement, General Giarna looked over her shoulder.

“Excellent! And the elves—what do you see of them?”

“They stand firm, my lord.”

“What?” General Giarna’s voice barked violently against her, filling the small canvas shelter where they observed the battle. “You’re wrong! They must attack!”

Suzine flinched. The image in the mirror—a picture of long ranks of elven warriors, holding their positions, failing to pursue the bait of the human retreat—wavered slightly,

She felt the general’s rage explode, and then the image faded. Suzine saw only her own reflection and the hideous face of the man behind her.

“My lord! Let us hit them now, while they fall back in confusion!” Kith turned to see Kencathedrus beside him. His old teacher rode a prancing mare, and the weariness of the march from Silvanost was totally gone from his face. Instead, the warrior’s eyes burned, and his gauntleted fist clung tightly to the hilt of his sword.

“It has to be a trick,” Kith countered. “We didn’t drive them away that easily.”

“For the gods’ sakes, Kith-Kanan—these are humans! The cowardly scum will run from a loud noise! Let’s follow up and destroy them!”

“No!” Kith’s voice was harsh, full of command, and Kencathedrus’s face whitened with frustration.

“We do not face an ordinary general,” Kith-Kanan continued, feeling that he owed further explanation to the one who had girded his first sword upon him.

“He hasn’t failed to surprise me yet, and I know we have seen but a fraction of his force.”

“But if they fly they will escape! We must pursue!” Kencathedrus couldn’t help himself.

“The answer is no. If they are escaping, so be it. If they attempt to pull us out of our position to trap us, they shall not.”

Another roar thundered across the fields before them, and more humans came into view, running toward the elves with all manner of weaponry. Great companies of longbowmen readied their missiles, while bearded axemen raised their heavy blades over their heads. Spearmen charged with gleaming points extended toward the enemy, while swordsmen banged their swords against their shields, advancing at a steady march.

Kencathedrus, shocked by the fresh display of human might and vigor, looked at the general with respect. “You knew,” he said wonderingly. Kith-Kanan shrugged and shook his head. “No—I simply suspected. Perhaps because I had a good teacher.”

The older elf growled, appreciating the remark but annoyed with himself. Indeed, they both realized that, had the elves advanced when Kencathedrus had desired, they would have been swiftly overrun, vulnerable in the open field.

Kencathedrus rejoined his reserve company, and Kith-Kanan immersed himself in the fight. Thousands of humans and elves clashed along the line, and hundreds died. Weapons shattered against shields, and bones shattered beneath blades. The long morning gave way to afternoon, but the passing of time meant nothing to the desperate combatants, for whom each moment could be their last.

The tide of battle surged back and forth. Companies of humans turned and fled, many of them before their charging ranks even reached the determined elves. Others hacked and slew their way into the defenders, and occasionally a company of elves gave way. Then the humans poured through the gap like the surging surf, but always Kith-Kanan was there, slashing with his bloody sword, urging his elven lancers into the breach.

Wave after wave of humans surged madly across the trampled field, hurling themselves into the elves as if to shatter them with the sheer momentum of their charges. As soon as one company broke, one regiment fell back depleted and demoralized, another block of steel-tipped humanity lunged forward to take its place.

The Wildrunners fought until total exhaustion gripped each and every warrior, and then they fought some more. Their small, mobile companies banded together to form solid lines, shifted to deflect each new charge, and flowed sideways to fill gaps caused by their fallen or routed comrades. Always those plunging horses backed them up, and each time, as the line faltered, the elven cavalry thundered against the breakthrough, driving it back in disorder. Those five hundred riders managed to seal every breach. By the time the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, Kith noticed a slackening in the human attacks. One company of swordsmen stumbled away, and for once there was no fresh formation to take their place in the attack. The din of combat seemed to fade somewhat, and then he saw another formation—a group of axemen—turn and lumber away from the fight. More and more of the humans broke off their attacks, and soon the great regiments of Ergoth streamed across the field, back toward their own lines.

Kith slumped wearily in his saddle, staring in suspicion at the fleeing backs of the soldiers. Could it be over? Had the Wildrunners won? He looked at the sun—about four good hours of daylight remained. The humans wouldn’t risk an encounter at night, he knew. Elven nightvision was one of the great proofs of the elder race’s superiority over its shorter-lived counterparts. Yet certainly the hour was not the reason for the humans’ retreat, not when they had been pressing so forcefully all along the line.

A weary Parnigar approached on foot. Kith had seen the scout’s horse cut down beneath him during the height of the battle. The general recognized his captain’s lanky walk, though Parnigar’s face and clothes were caked in mud and the blood of his slain enemies.

“We’ve held them, sir,” he reported, his face creasing into a disbelieving smile. Immediately, however, he frowned and shook his head. “Some three or four hundred dead, though. The day was not without its cost.” Kith looked at the exhausted yet steady ranks of his Wildrunners. The pikemen held their weapons high, the archers carried bows at the ready, while those with swords honed their blades in the moments of silence and respite. The formations still arrayed in full ranks, as if fresh and unblooded, but their ranks were shorter now. Organized in neat rows behind each company, covered with blankets, lay a quiet grouping of motionless forms. At least the dead can rest, he thought, feeling his own weariness. He looked again to the humans, seeing that they still fled in disorder. Many of them had reached the tree line and were disappearing into the sheltering forest.

“My lord! My lord! Now is the time. You must see that.” Kith turned to see Kencathedrus galloping up to him. The elven veteran reined in beside the general and gestured at the fleeing humans.

“You may be right.” Kith-Kanan had to agree. He saw the five thousand elves of Silvanost gathered in trim ranks, ready to advance the moment he gave the word. This was the chance to deliver a coup de grace that could send the enemy reeling all the way back to Caergoth.