And then he heard the whisper from the nearby Evergreen Wood, reminding him of his return from grief. It seemed an age ago.
Welcome, lord.
He felt Gor’sadén and Pan’assár straighten at his side, and then he heard Rinon from behind him.
“What the Hell …?”
“That is the Warlord, Rinon. Your brother.”
“Ready!” The gritty, prolonged shriek of Captain Dalú from afar.
There was an answering noise, deep and breathy. Silvan archers prepared at the rear. Gor’sadén could not see them, but he knew they were there, briefly wondered at the tactic they would use. Then he spotted more, high up on the walls. They spread out, knelt, sharp eyes surely calculating the distance to the black army, bows the length of any elf. Gor’sadén’s eyes shifted to the rebel archers. Their short bows would not reach them up there.
He spoke to Pan’assár, but his eyes remained trained on the archers. “Long bows.”
Pan’assár narrowed his eyes and then looked at the Warlord while he answered Gor’sadén. “That was an excellent tactic.”
Before the Silvans, two lines of long, wooden shields, and behind them, at the very centre, were Dalú and Fel’annár, The Company at his shoulders. Dalú turned to the young Warlord, watched as he contemplated the mass of warriors before him. His strategy had been sound, Dalú’s scepticism unfounded.
Fel’annár half-turned to Dalú, nodded.
“Aim!”
The creak of skilfully crafted wood, colourful feathers between strong fingers. Hands tightly curled around standards held high—the Grey Bear, the White Oak, the Fire Fox and Silver Deer—ready to unfurl in the breeze, ancient witnesses to the bravery of their descendants.
“Fire!”
Arrows whispered through the air, met enemy bolts high above, and then they took cover as they rained down on shields. The standards were driven into the ground, swords drawn.
“Fire!” yelled Dalú again. Another volley, another shower of thick arrows. Like serpents of death, they whooshed through the air, seeking to even the odds. The archers on the battlements were firing down on the enemy, picking off as many archers as they could. A group of black-clad warriors broke off, made for the stairways up to the crenellations. They didn’t have much time, but they could even the odds a little.
Fel’annár thought he heard the whisper of something ancient and then soft words rolled from his tongue.
“For Lássira.”
The Company yelled them out, words merging with Dalú’s cry to battle. “Lássiraaa—charge!!”
A sea of yelling, shouting Silvans sprinted forwards, tribal skirts and paints, braids flying around them like ribbons in the breeze. Amongst them, a grey-haired Alpine in breeches.
The line became an arrowhead with Fel’annár at the fore, a sword in each hand, and beside him, Dalú and Idernon. A three-pronged attack, and Band’orán’s army was ready for it. To the right, the last of the King’s men inched left, towards the charging Silvans, but a part of the black army broke away and charged towards them.
The last of the arrows were loosed from the walls, but they were soon gone and fell to blades. Voices waxed louder the closer they came until, with a collective roar of anger and bravery, they collided. An exhale, a deep heaving breath, and the thud of bodies against armour, the clatter of swords, blades shrieking.
Silvan warriors fell. Kah Warriors fell. The press of friend and foe was too close, so close it was hard to swing a sword, so they used pommels, elbows, heads until there was distance enough to use their blades. Fel’annár felt The Company around him. They knew to steer clear of his swords.
Dalú yelled as he fought, Angon always close by. Fel’annár battled his way forward, rallying the troop, regrouping them and deploying others to places where the line had been breached. All the while, The Company stayed as close as they could. The Kah Warriors were good, better than most, and the Silvans were hard-pressed to defeat them one on one. Instead, they fought in twos and threes, just as Dalú had instructed, as Fel’annár had commanded.
The Warlord slashed and parried, felt a blade glance over his cuirass, felt nothing at all. His longsword arced right and cut through a nearby warrior, while his left hand drove his shorter blade into the back of another. Before long, he fell into a rhythm.
Kill, observe, deploy.
He glanced to the right, to the other, smaller battle. “Salo!” he shouted, gesturing to the struggling group. They were being pushed back. The lieutenant rallied a small number of warriors and sprinted towards them, but there was no time for Fel’annár to watch. It was still too close quarters, but damn it all, he could not see Gor’sadén, could not see the king.
He felt the Dohai stir in his chest, felt its warmth in his limbs, and he released it, slowly, rationing his strength, channelling the force through his arms and legs. Strange, he thought as he fought, because these Kah Warriors knew the moves, executed them well enough, but they did not project. There was no Dohai, a fundamental flaw in their training—one he took full advantage of.
While the battle raged outside, Handir fumbled with an ornate chair sitting against a wall. It was the only thing he could find in this sea of panicked, terrified civilians who had nowhere to go.
Smoke lay heavily in the air, and if the fire in the Council Hall was not doused, they would all be forced outside, into the line of fire. He dredged up recent memories of the aftermath of the Battle of Tar’eastór, when he had learned at his Master’s shoulder, watched a king reforge his realm.
Handir stepped up and steadied himself on the padded surface of the chair. He held out his hands. He had once seen Damiel do this in a similar situation, had been struck at how dramatic this posture had been. As if he prayed for rain, Handir held his arms out and up, and then he spoke, just as he had heard Pan’assár and Gor’sadén do with their warriors.
“Listen to me.”
A lull in the din, but still there were noisy pockets of shouting elves. He turned to them, held his hand out for them to quieten. They did.
“Listen to me. We must do our part to safeguard our people. We are not warriors, yet we are skilled in our own ways. We work together now. That fire must be extinguished. Are there any engineers here?”
“Here!” shouted one elf, arm up.
“Your name?”
“Peldor.”
“Peldor is in charge of the fires. Heed him!
The voices were rising again, and Handir held his hands out once more.
“I need the kitchens to produce enough sustenance for our warriors, for the wounded. Who has experience leading a household?”
“I do.” A defiant voice, unmistakably Silvan. Lady Miren.
“Miren.”
“I will do my part, Prince.”
Handir nodded respectfully at her, turned back to the crowd.
“We have corrupt councillors to find. I need a military leader, someone to organise the search and detention until our warriors can deal with the traitors.”
A short woman stepped forward, voice powerful, face utterly strange. Lerita.
“Leave that to me, Prince.”