Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Fallen Sun

“I understand, my queen,” said Silvan. He rose to his feet, flushed with victory, the thrill of danger flashing like the lightning through his blood. “I will not fail you or my people. I thank you for your trust in me.”

Alhana took his face in her hands, hands that were so cold that he could not repress a shiver. She placed her lips upon his forehead. Her kiss burned like ice, the chill struck through to his heart. He would always feel that kiss, from that moment after. He wondered if her pallid lips had left an indelible mark.

Samar’s crisp professionalism came as a relief.

“You know the route, Prince Silvan,” Samar said. “You rode it only two days before. The road lies about a mile and a half due south of here. You will have no stars to guide you, but the wind blows from the north. Keep the wind at your back and you will be heading in the right direction. The road runs east and west, straight and true. You must eventually cross it. Once you are on the road, travel westward. The storm wind will be on your right cheek. You should make good time. There is no need for stealth. The sound of battle will mask your movements. Good luck, Prince Silvanoshei.”

“Thank you, Samar,” said Silvan, touched and pleased. For the first time in his life, the elf had spoken to him as an equal, with even a modicum of respect. “I will not fail you or my mother.”

“Do not fail your people, Prince,” said Samar.

With a final glance and a smile for his mother, a smile she did not return, Silvan turned and left the burial mound, striking out in the direction of the forest. He had not gone far, when he heard Samar’s voice raised in a bellowing cry.

“General Aranoshah! Take two orders of swordsmen off to the left flank and send two more to the right. We’ll need to keep four units here with Her Majesty in reserve in case they breach the line and break through.”

Break through! That was impossible. The line would hold.

The line must hold. Silvan halted and looked back. The elves had raised their battle song, its music sweet and uplifting, soaring above the brutish chant of the ogres. He was cheered by the sight and started on, when a ball of fire, blue-white and blinding, exploded on the left side of the hill. The fireball hurtled down the hillside, heading for the burial mounds.

“Shift fire to your left!” Samar called down the slope.

The archers were momentarily confused, not understanding their targets, but their officers managed to turn them in the right direction. The ball of flame struck another portion of the barrier, ignited the thicket, and continued to blaze onward. At first Silvan thought the balls of flame were magical, and he wondered what good archers would do against sorcery, but then he saw that the fireballs were actually huge bundles of hay being pushed and shoved down the hillside by the ogres. He could see their hulking bodies silhouetted black against the leaping flames.

The ogres carried long sticks that they used to shove the burning hay stacks.

“Wait for my order!” Samar cried, but the elves were nervous and several arrows were loosed in the direction of the blazing hay.

“No, damn it!” Samar yelled with rage down the slope.

“They’re not in range yet! Wait for the order!”

A crash of thunder drowned out his voice. Seeing their comrades fire, the remainder of the archer line loosed their first volley.

The arrows arched through the smoke-filled night. Three of the ogres pushing the flaming haystacks fell under the withering fire, but the rest of the arrows landed far short of their marks.

“Still,” Silvan told himself, “they will soon stop them.”

A baying howl as of a thousand wolves converging on their prey cried from the woods close to the elven archers. Silvan stared, startled, thinking that the trees themselves had come alive.

“Shift fire forward!” Samar cried desperately.

The archers could not hear him over the roar of the approaching flames. Too late, their officers noticed the sudden rushing movement in the trees at the foot of the hill. A line of ogres surged into the open, charging the thicket wall that protected the archers. The flames had weakened the barrier. The huge ogres charged into the smoldering mass of burned sticks and logs, shouldering their way through. Cinders fell on their matted hair and sparked in their beards, but the ogres, in a battle rage, ignored the pain of their burns and lurched forward.

Now being attacked from the front and on their flank, the elven archers grappled desperately for their arrows, tried to loose another volley before the ogres closed. The flaming haystacks thundered down on them. The elves did not know which enemy to fight first. Some lost their heads in the chaos.

Samar roared orders. The officers struggled to bring their troops under control. The elves fired a second volley, some into the burning hay bales, others into the ogres charging them on the flank.

More ogres fell, an immense number, and Silvan thought that they must retreat. He was amazed and appalled to see the ogres continue forward, undaunted.

“Samar, where are the reserves?” Alhana called out.

“I think they have been cut off,” Samar returned grimly. “You should not be out here, Your Majesty. Go back inside where you are safe.”

Silvan could see his mother now. She had left the burial mound. She was clad in silver armor, carried a sword at her side.

“I led my people here,” Alhana returned. “Will you have me skulk in a cave while my people are dying, Samar?”

“Yes,” he growled.

She smiled at him, a tight strained smile, but still a smile.

She gripped the hilt of her sword. “Will they break through, do you think?”

“I don’t see much stopping them, Your Majesty,” Samar said grimly.

The elven archers loosed another volley. The officers had regained control of the troops. Every shot told. The ogres charging from the front fell by the score. Half the line disappeared. Still the ogres continued their advance, the living trampling the bodies of the fallen. In moments they would be within striking range of the archers’ position.

“Launch the assault!” Samar roared.

Elven swordsmen rose up from their positions behind the left barricades. Shouting their battle cries, they charged the ogre line. Steel rang against steel. The flaming haystacks burst into the center of the camp, crushing men, setting fire to trees and grass and clothing. Suddenly, without warning, the ogre line turned. One of their number had caught sight of Alhana’s silver armor, reflecting the firelight. With guttural cries, they pointed at her and were now charging toward the burial mound.

“Mother!” Silvan gasped, his heart tangled up with his stomach. He had to bring help. They were counting on him, but he was paralyzed, mesmerized by the terrible sight. He couldn’t run to her. He couldn’t run away. He couldn’t move.

“Where are those reserves?” Samar shouted furiously. “Aranosha! You bastard! Where are Her Majesty’s swordsmen!”

“Here, Samar!” cried a warrior. “We had to fight our way to you, but we are here!”

“Take them down there, Samar,” said Alhana calmly.

“Your Majesty!” He started to protest. “I will not leave you without guards.”

“If we don’t halt the advance, Samar,” Alhana returned. “It won’t much matter whether I have guards or not. Go now. Quickly!”

Samar wanted to argue, but he knew by the remote and resolute expression on his queen’s face that he would be wasting his breath. Gathering the reserves around him, Samar charged down into the advancing ogres.

Alhana stood alone, her silver armor burning with the reflected flames.

“Make haste, Silvan, my son. Make haste. Our lives rest on you.”