Thargodén’s face hardened until it was frigid steel and he stepped forwards, a breeze catching on his now dry cape. “I will not.”
Band’orán smiled. “You have no army. They have all gone. What stands before me now is nothing but a five-minute practice session for my Kah Warriors. You cannot win the day, nephew. You know this.”
“Do I? These elves who were once soldiers in my army, these traitors—illicit Kah—they have no soul, Band’orán. Their hearts are as black and charred as yours. No honour. You cannot rise victorious if you have no soul. Your defeat is as sure as your own death this day, by my hand. In your moment of peace, Band’orán, it is my face you will see.”
Band’orán faltered, and then anger flared like a conflagration over his black army. A deep breath, one last, desperate clutch on his mind. But the fibres were unravelling, coming apart. He could feel it, like slipping from a high ridge. He had brought himself back from the edge so many times, and yet today, it no longer seemed to matter. He let go and felt the last threads detaching themselves. He had his army, had Thargodén at his mercy. He no longer needed to hide what he was, how he was. Bendir stepped up beside him, and on his other side, Dinor, his hair half shorn away but alive. Angry.
On the far side of the courtyard, Pan’assár called to his host of two hundred loyal warriors, only fifty of whom were archers. “Take aim!”
He heard them prepare at the back, while a line of warriors formed before the king. Anchoring their long shields on the ground, they braced behind them. Gods but they would be skewered even before they could charge, realised Pan’assár. And still there was no answering call from the Ashorn. They needed the Silvans if they were to win this fight, but Fel’annár had no experience rallying troops, not on this scale.
Even if he had managed it, it would surely be too late for them.
“Ready!” he called, as if a mighty army stood behind him.
Captain Bendir’s order from across the courtyard was almost synchronous, and the black army readied their swords, blades rippling down the lines of Kah Warriors, like the wave of some metallic tail.
“Fire!” shouted Pan’assár.
Arrows shot over their heads, bound for the enemy lines and even as they reached back for the next arrow, the warriors raised their shields, creating a roof for the king and commanders. Arrows slammed into wood. Some clattered away, some sunk into flesh. Another volley sailed into the air, just as the enemy bows were loosed. It was time to move or they would all be shot to death where they stood. These armies had once been one, they shared the same tactics, and the element of surprise was unlikely.
“For Or’Talán!” shouted Thargodén.
They surged forward, each with their last, chosen words flying from their lips. They ran headfirst towards the black and silver mass, archers still firing from behind. They would soon join the front line, shoot at a shorter range. The black army sprinted towards them, its warriors lighter, faster, more prepared.
Pan’assár and Gor’sadén rushed into the fray first. One thought of Or’Talán, while the other sent a plea for help—to Fel’annár, to Aria, to whoever would come. Thargodén, Rinon and Turion followed with what was left of the fractured Inner Circle.
Thargodén hefted Or’Talán’s mighty sword over his head, proud at last to feel the great king’s weapon in his hands. It lent him strength in this, his last battle, the final moments of his life. He would face death knowing that his father had loved him. That he had not betrayed him, that Lássira perhaps was waiting for him.
But their soldiers were falling. It was only a matter of time before they were surrounded and killed. Thargodén knew this. They all did.
Two of The Three were wreaking chaos before them. Together, they worked like some steely machine, like the cogs of some complex contraption. Their movements were almost a perfect complement to each other, almost because Pan’assár was compensating on Gor’sadén’s left, sweeping wider that way than the other. It was still mesmerising, still too dangerous for most. The Kah Shadows were slow to engage them.
The shouting, yelling mass of elven warriors who had once fought as one, now killed each other in the name of their lords, for honour or for gain.
But then, over the roaring, bellowing warriors and the incessant clanking and thudding of weapons, a single minor note wailed upon the air. It struck a chord of something deeply atavistic—something only the blood understood.
The Ashorn.
A deep and rumbling groan, and then a violent clank. Thargodén whirled around to face the distant gates to his left.
Chains rattled, cogs whirled and then a violent boom. A lull fell in the fighting. Scattered shrieks sounded from fallen warriors, but all eyes were on the open gates. The sounds of battle were replaced by the marching of many boots stomping forwards, the clink of wood against wood, metal against metal, and then three hundred Silvan warriors formed up before them.
At the front, at the very centre, was surely Or’Talán.
Fel’annár’s eyes were green, far too bright, and his silver hair was twisted, braided and beaded. An Alpine, a Silvan, decked a Warlord, painted a leader.
Behind him, a host to terrify the most hardened of warriors. They were wild and they were primal, defiance glittering in eyes that were all the shades of the forest.
There were shouts of disbelief from the high balconies and windows of the palace, its citizens hanging as far out as they dared, voices almost panicked. “What sorcery is this?” they cried. Were they friend or foe? And when the battle began, who would they charge at? Band’orán or Thargodén?
Band’orán’s mind was searching, desperate for how he had failed to anticipate this. The Silvans and Alpines had been close to civil war. He had planned it all so meticulously, and it had worked. Why had they ridden to the aid of the Alpine king? How had the boy rallied them, convinced them to work for their enemy? The thought that he had misjudged Thargodén’s son took hold and his anger deepened, sunk into his soul and twisted it. He had had him at his mercy, and still, he had escaped—stood there like a king.
Bendir was rearranging the army, regrouping and organising it, and Band’orán spoke fast and urgent to him. Thargodén’s ragged warriors were before them and the host of Silvans to their right. It was time for a change of strategy, and the Kah Warriors hurried into their new positions. An arrowhead of archers facing the Silvans and the nearest walls to the right. Behind the tip, two fronts—one looking forwards, and the other to the left and the king.
Band’orán knew his army could take the Silvans, but still, he needed a backup plan. He needed to get to the king, use him as leverage should the battle not go to plan. Bendir would look after the Silvans. He would finish Thargodén for good.
The king stared at the Silvan army, a powerful surge of energy running the length of his spine. These strange warriors fought for him. They had always been there, camouflaged under foreign garb, unrecognised skill, at the beck and call of Alpine captains. But how had he allowed it? How had he failed to understand this prize asset? And it was his son who led them. He turned to Pan’assár, saw some hidden grief there. But so too, was there admiration. Finally, he turned to Gor’sadén, and he saw pride—love.