Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

“They have stopped marching for the day,” Dallatar reported as the sun neared the western horizon. “They will make their camp on the slopes and summit of a large, steep hill.”

Further reports indicated that the Dark Knights would apparently keep one dragon in the air all night, alternating in one-hour shifts so that the flying serpent wouldn’t get overly tired. Though the invaders didn’t build a palisade around their camp, the steepness of the hill gave them a measure of defensibility. Some thickets of brush and stumpy pine trees extended up the slopes, but the crest of the hill was bald, providing the knights with good visibility and easy movement from one side of the elevation to another.

As soon as they learned that the enemy had stopped marching, the elves moved out. Like a file of ghosts in the forests, they moved silently toward the hill. The Kagonesti led the way, with the volunteers from the Qualinost recruits in the middle and the scouts of Porthios’s original force bringing up the rear. The griffons came with them, padding along on the ground in order to prevent any chance of being discovered in flight.

Full darkness had settled around them by the time they drew near to the hill.

“Do they have pickets in the forest?” Porthios asked Dallatar, gesturing to the fringe of thick woods around the base of the hill.

“Not enough,” replied the Kagonesti. “Those who are there we will kill in silence.”

“Very well.” The dark elf looked upward, seeing the shadowy form of the circling dragon pass across a pale wisp of cloud. “We’ll take to the sky and try to get that fellow at the same time.”

The rest of the battle plan was formed on the spot, taking into account the terrain, the relative abilities of the Kagonesti and the ill-trained recruits from Qualinost. Fortunately each of these elves had a flint and a steel, and these were ingredients of a key aspect of the impending assault. The wild elves left immediately, relying on their natural stealth as they embarked on the difficult task of removing the Dark Knight pickets.

It was nearing midnight as the rest of the elves dispersed, two bands slipping through the woods to different places at the base of the hill, while Porthios and two hundred of his original Qualinesti waited with the griffons to make up the final part of the attack.

The minutes seemed to drag by like hours, but he knew that they had to wait. Timing was a crucial element of the attack, and each formation would have to make its presence known at the appropriate time. Finally he judged that the moment was right, and with a gesture of his hand, the prince sent two hundred elves into their saddles. White wings fluttered through the clearing, and he had a brief impression of a reverse snowstorm as the fierce griffons swarmed around and slowly lifted themselves and their riders into the sky.

Once they had reached the top of the trees, the elven formation strung into a long line, flying swiftly away from the Dark Knights’ camp. Porthios was grateful for the absence of moonlight as he gradually led the group higher and higher into the air. Puffy clouds wafted past, blocking out many of the stars, and he hoped that these, too, would work to the elves’ advantage.

Gaining altitude steadily, Porthios led the flying formation around a large mass of cloud. Here, screened from the invaders’ view, they spiraled into a rapid climb and finally headed toward the enemy’s camp. They flew at an altitude far above the monotonous spiral of the flying dragon. Maintaining utter silence, they winged closer and closer, veering only enough to keep one or more clouds between themselves and the Dark Knights.

Finally the outlaw prince and Stallyar emerged from a gap between two clouds, and far below he saw the outline of a large blue dragon. The serpent was gliding, wings lazily outspread, with the dark outline of a rider on the saddle between its shoulders. Both dragon and Dark Knight had their attention focused on the ground, which was just what Porthios had been hoping for—indeed, had been counting on.

The griffons tucked their wings, one by one other plummeting after their leader. Porthios drew his sword in a silent gesture while Stallyar, who knew the plan as well as any of the elves, targeted the neck of the monstrous serpent. Wind whistled past, rasping against the prince’s skin, and he felt certain that the knight must soon hear his approach. But even as the target grew larger, until the dragon’s wingspread seemed to span the full width of his vision, both dragon and rider held their attention on the still, dark hilltop below.

Just before the two fliers collided, Porthios leapt from his saddle, landing hard on the back of the dragon. The wyrm uttered a startled gasp as Stallyar’s talons scraped his head, while the elf’s sword, a weapon toned and hallowed by generations of the finest elven artisans, was darting toward the back of the armored knight.

But perhaps that dragonrider had heard his attacker an instant before contact. In any event, the man twisted away, grunting as the sword scraped past his shoulder. He had a short-bladed sword in his own hand, and he made a powerful thrust, rocking Porthios back on the rough spines of the dragon’s backbone. At the same time, the wyrm ducked into a dive, and the elf felt himself sliding toward a broad, leathery wing.

Frantically he reached out, grasping at anything he could touch. His hand closed over the back of the knight’s saddle, and his sword slashed wildly. Steel clanged as the two weapons met, and then the dragon tilted back, twisting and hissing as it tried to pull the griffon off its neck. Porthios was pushed forward with the shift in momentum, and he thrust unerringly, feeling the sharp blade punch through the man’s breastplate, then cut through gristle, flesh, and bone.

Without a sound, the knight toppled away, and now more griffons were plunging past. Elven swords sliced the wyrm’s wings, hacking scales from the supple neck, gouging deep into haunches, flanks, and tail. Still grasping the saddle, Porthios leaned forward and stabbed downward, slicing deep into the wyrm’s shoulder, feeling the dragon twist convulsively. Eyes wide, the elves saw gaping jaws, a neck twisted impossibly as the creature lashed around to bite at him.

But then Samar was there, the warrior-mage riding Bellaclaw and bearing the slender dragonlance. The keen silver edge sliced through the dragon’s neck, gouging deep, nearly severing the hateful head. Porthios was washed by a warm spray, and he realized that blood was gushing from the deep wound on the monster’s neck.

And just like that, the dragon died, never uttering a sound louder than the irritated hissing that had greeted the first attack. The massive wings swept upward, pushed by air pressure as the lifeless shape tumbled toward the ground. Sheathing his sword, Porthios flung himself into the air, flailing wildly, grasping at Stallyar’s reins as the griffon dived past. Pulling himself into the saddle, the prince jabbed his feet into his stirrups and looked around with a sense of exhilaration. The rest of the griffons were diving with him, wings tucked, though they weren’t dropping as fast as the slain dragon.

Still, the camp on the hilltop was now growing underneath them. His eyes skimming the trees, Porthios spotted a glimmer of flame, then several spots of brightness, like living sparks that danced and sparkled in the dry woods. He heard shouts of alarm, saw agitated activity, and knew that the timing of the attack was working perfectly.

Dragons bellowed, and knights shuffled out of their bedrolls, cursing and grunting as they hastily slapped on their weapons. The blue dragons were gathered at the hilltop, and they huffed and snorted impatiently. All of their attention, as far as Porthios could tell, was focused on the fires that were now growing to encompass an arc around a third of the base of the hill.