Galadair crouches motionless, her enchanted cloak perfectly mimicking the surrounding foliage, wrapped tightly around her slim shoulders.
Below the cloak, ornate armour - forged in the slave pits of Charda - forms a protective layer around her diminutive frame.
A long-bladed dagger, made of blackened steel and razor sharp sits lightly in her palm.
She gazes down at the plain below, named as the plains of Aurochs, two mighty hosts arrayed for battle about to clash.
A ghost of a smile flickers over her delicate elven visage and then swiftly dissappears.
This is all my doing.
Three months previously, two dozen elves set forth from Keshlair Labarynth in the north to ambush and slaughter a diplomatic convoy bound for Darragen in the west. Using barbarian made weapons the whole incident was blamed upon the northern tribesmen. Subsequently a large force of Krieglund Templars with their retainers marched north to exact revenge on the northerners. After two barbarian villages are put to the sword, an army of clansmen were hastily formed to repel the invaders.
Facing the crags to her left the Krieglund army formed a stirring sight. Ranks of archers and pikemen, mainly dressed in the browns and greys of a peasant levy made up the majority of the force, and moved with the grim purpose of an army bent on plunder and pillage. Contrasting with these were the Knights of Krieglund. Both mounted and afoot these warriors were known throughout the Seven Realms as The Merciless. Krieglund is one of the greatest nations of the Seven Realms, and also one of the oldest. Formed by an adventurous nobleman named Kregen, Krieglund was carved out influenced by the main characteristics of Kregan himself, bravery, callousness and intolerence. These virtues now eschewed by all the noble families, and in particular the knightly orders. It is these orders that display the flamboyant heraldry of fantastic beasts upon brightly contrasting colours that provide such a stirring sight on the battlefield.
Galadairs gaze is drawn to the most formiddable unit in the Krieglund army - the Knights Templar heavy cavalry that has formed up on the extreme left flank on the plain. Even from a distance of around a thousand paces this unit looked fearsome, indeed these were the cream of the Krieglund army and would surely play a large part in the battle to come.
A flash of yellow brought Galadair back from her reverie.
A small man with the bearing of a scholar stood deep in conference with the Krieglund general.
He is probably an observer from the temple, else a merchant on a mission of profit.
Galadair could not see any evidence of a weapon upon him,meaning he wishes to play no part in this battle.
He has no right being here. Perhaps I can arrange for a fatal 'accident' for the coward before I return home.
Home. A single word conjures a wealth of images. Shardlake Labarynth, Galadair's home. A massive underground city built in a vast cavern with thousands of elves dwelling there in semi-peace. Protected from attack on three sides by the Shardlake, still underwater lagoon infested by many dangerous creatures unheard of on the surface. Not that any but the most foolish would dare approach the Labarynth, with over three thousand elven warriors and double that in battle slaves none but the insane attack them. The slave pits are where the spoils of war go, virtually every race in the world have either workers there or corpses that used to work there, making weapons, armour and other artifacts for the good of elvenkind. As a child Galadair used to go and watch the overseers whip any slave not working, and in the pit life was cheap, and many slaves died at the hands of another. Ah, the joys of youth. A booming voice brought her out of her daydream.
To her right was the tribesman, a roaring sea of painted barbarians assails her senses, the thunderous noise of yelling warriors, howling wardogs and booming wardrums threatening to deafen her.
The smell of unwashed bodies carried on the wind to pollute her sensitive nostrils.
Filthy animals, one day my people will eradicate this scourge from the land, I doubt even their rotting corpses will benefit the soil overmuch.
As she studies the barbarian host, the differnet clans become evident.
The heavily tattooed Coragh-Gar from the northeast, the Murdaigs' faces and torsos painted red to appear even more fearsome, even the Canachii tribe with filed teeth and shaven heads were there.
By far the most numerous clan was Cliathaig, and rightly so as was their villages that had been destroyed.
These tribesmen, above all the others would fight with the righteous fury of the wronged, they would give no quarter and expect none.
Trumpets blare from the Krieglunders' lines and their orderly ranks of Templars, pikemen and archers advanced with calm precision. Simultaneously warhorns and drums of the barabarian throng sound and they lope forward in much looser formations.
As soon as they get in range Krieglunder arrows start raining down on the barbarians. Skirmishing clansmen hurl heavy javelins and heavy barbed darts leave gaping holes in the front ranks of soldiers. With the last of the javelins thrown both sides sound the charge and clash in the middle of the field with an inhuman roar of hate.
Galadair watched with callous satisfaction as all along the battleline men died by the hundreds.
She watches a huge wardog dart past a pikeman's guard and bury its jaws into his wrist, and worrying it until a half mangled hand drops to the floor.
A scarred Krieglund veteran disembowls his young opponent only to receive an axe blow that removes most of his lower jaw from a huge bearded warrior with a doubled handed axe.
All over the battlefield men are locked in bloody conflict, hacking, cursing, slashing and killing.
The noise is deafening.
The screams of agony, whinnies of horses and clash of steel, a beautifully orchestrated symphony to the elven scouts ears.
And I am the conductor.
In an appalling display of wanton bloodletting the barbarian beserkers fell upon the archers from the south, these men -dragooned into the Krieglund army- were mainly woodsmen from the Ekslom forests near the city fortess Narem and no match for these relentless slayers. They wish only to die a hero's death, in battle for their god of war, Buk The Slaughterer, but before He calls them, a harvest of heads must be gathered. Just as the woodsmen begin to waver a reserve force of foot knights charge into the beserkers and the killing continues unabated.
Elsewhere the mounted Knights are causing horrible damage to the unarmoured barbarians with every charge. The young clansmen of Murdaig bear the brunt of this carnage behind a wall of hide-covered sheilds. Each charge brings a visible shudder from the front ranks, but youthful bravado and the promise of manhood, and all the honours associated with it, keeps the line firm. A lone chariot comes hurtling out with reckless abandone towards the reforming cavalry, the intention is clear, use the chariot as a huge battering ram against the knights and Clan Murdaig will charge the arrogant Krieglunders.
Than a strange thing happens, just before the chariot crashes into the milling horsemen, the axle of the chariot shears in two flipping the machine over , hurling the driver high into the airand back down to earth with a severed scream.
The now uncontrolled horses meet the Knights kicking and biting but cause little damage.
These barbarians may be savage oafs but they are good craftsmen.
The chariot must have been sabotaged...
I will investigate the wreckage after the battle.
Galadair's are cut short by a blinding flash and a thunderclap. The yellow clad stands arms outstretched, beams of blue light stream into the massed ranks of clansmen, hurling broken bodies back into the ranks, smoking craters of cauterised flesh, where their chests once were. One huge blood drenched warrior leaps over the corpses of his comrades bellowing like rabid bear, a huge double-headed axe held high ready to smite the diminutive wizard. Quick as a snake the mage thrusts his hand out at the burly warrior. Incandescent bolts of fire strike him squarely in the chest creating a human torch.
Allowing himself a smug smile, a magically amplified voice is heard all over the battlefield; "Know ye now the power of a mage of the Light Cabal!".
The mage looks about seeking fresh targets, when the still standing barbarian warrior lets out an incredible scream of such unutterable agony that causes those nearby to briefly pause their combat. He leaps towards the dumbfounded spellcaster striking with the flaming axe across the mages face, removing all features leaving a bloody ruin. The flames are extinguished immediatly and the barbarian screams from a pain blistered throat "Know YE, the power of clan Dergh!". With that he collapses onto the ground, dead.
The battlelines were now intermingled as the fighting had become more ferocious and chaotic. The clan veterans of Coragh-Gar had routed a unit of pikemen only to be countercharged and destroyed by the Templar Knights, who were now locked in bloody stalemate with a large unit of Canachii, bent on vengeance.
The tide of battle was turning towards the Krieglunders as the tribesmen's intial impetous faltered, they were being slowly pushed back as their opponents better armour and discipline began to tell. Only barbarian pride keeps them from headlong flight, the battle has reached a critical point.
To her left forty paces below her around fifty barbarian horsemen appeared from a hidden ravine and galloped down the slope into the Krieglund flank.
Once figure at the vanguard of the group let out a ululating warcry.
Galadair recognised him as Bardan the Brave, cheif of the Cliatha tribe and a famed warrior, he is reputed to be a reincarnation of the Bashlak hero of The Time Of Founding.
Let us see how he fights...........
As he crashed into the Knights Bardan roared is delight.
You will regret coming to my lands.
Feel the wrath of Clan Cliatha.
He hacked at the Knight before him, arm jarring under the terrific impact of the blow against his enemys helm, as he staggered back Bardan struck once more, chinstrap and neck of his opponent snapping.
The Knight crumpled like a puppet whose strings were cut and slid of his own warhorse under the flailing hooves of Bardan's own mount Skiah.
Barely catching his breath another opponent thrusts at him with a shining blade.
A clever parry puts his slower opponent off balance and a swift kick sends him off his horse into the path of another Knight's warhorse.
In that brief respite he glances around, everywhere clansmen were locked in combat with warriors from the south, but mainly due to his timely intervention, the tide was once more turning in their favour.
His survey was brought to an abrupt end as a wickedly spiked mace swung at his face, instinctively raising his blade to parry - robbing it of some power - as it crashes against his broad jaw.
Instinct takes over completely as Bardan's sword makes a counterstroke that crashes against his targets throat crushing the neckguard in the process killing him instantly.
Bardan smiles despite the demon tearing at his jaw with claws of fire and yells "BUK guide my blade!" and leaps back in to fray.
Galadairs strides about the now deserted battlefield, shivering in spite of the warm summer evening.
Pulling her cloak tightly around her she silently searches for signs of life in the eerie stillness.
All around her hundreds of corpses lay in unnatural poses, strewn about like discarded children toys, but more akin to the dreams of lunatic.
The fast approaching dusk lent otherworldly shadows to the faces of the dead.
The battle had swiftly become a rout when the barbarian cavalry destroyed the mounted Knights, then the pikemen, as they rolled along the flank, bringing mayhem to all the armies morale broke, and the slaughter began.
Barely a third of the Krieglund host managed to reach the relative safety of the forest, a quarter-league to the southeast.
The vengeful tribesmen were pursuing them still and it is unlikely that many would return to their own realm.
I must leave the battleground before the savages return.
They will not view my presence her as codusive.
Besides there may be a scrabber band about.
Movement from behind caused Galadair to whirl into a defensive crouch a sharp blade in each hand.
She relaxed, it was her second in command - Andalsui- a tall male from House Grallas.
"The mission is a success?" he asked.
"Yes, the humans are severely weakened in this area, inform Lord Naath that the invasion can begin".
Andalsui turns and walks back towards the hills.
The return of the days of blood are near
With a joyful laugh Galadair runs to catch up to her companion.