“Die traitor!” spat the elven princess as she tossed another fireball at Bakhai.
Bakhai quickly rolled to one side as the fireball struck the ground where he had fallen. Mistake turned and fled into the forest as the archers arrived. Motangan arrows chased the elven princess into the woods, but she was too quick for them to hit. A squad of soldiers raced past Bakhai and gave chase to the elf. Bakhai looked towards the camp and saw an officer approaching him. A dozen soldiers accompanied the officer, and Bakhai shivered with genuine fear.
“Help me,” implored Bakhai. “Don’t let her kill me.”
The Motangan soldiers surrounded Bakhai, their swords drawn and pointed towards him. They appeared to be awaiting the officer’s command to shove their swords into his flesh.
“Who are you?” demanded the officer.
“Help me,” pleaded Bakhai. “Don’t let her kill me. She is an evil spirit.”
“Evil spirit?” smirked the officer. “She is nothing but an elf. Who are you?”
“I am just a village boy,” Bakhai replied timidly. “I am called Bakhai. She is an evil spirit. There are no more elves. She has been following me ever since I entered the jungle.”
“Jungle?” questioned the officer. “What jungle?”
Bakhai started crying. He buried his head in his hands and let tears stains his cheeks. The officer shook his head with disgust. He raised his hand to give the soldiers the signal to kill the captive, but he paused for some reason. His hesitation gave enough pause for another officer to arrive.
“What is going on here?” asked the newly arrived general.
“I am not sure,” admitted the officer. “An elf magician tried to kill this boy, although he claims that she is an evil spirit. He said something about a jungle. I think he is crazy. I will have my men dispose of him.”
“No,” countermanded the general. “Is he armed?”
“Not that I can see,” replied the officer. “He is barely dressed.”
“What of the elf?” asked the general.
“She escaped into the forest,” answered the officer. “I have men tracking her down.”
“Good,” the general nodded satisfactorily. “Have some of your men bind the captive and bring him to my tent. I want to interrogate him. Perhaps he can tell us something about this land. There is no mention of a jungle on my maps.”
“As you wish,” saluted the officer.
* * *
The sky was clear, and the waxing moon was only days away from being full. The star-studded sky reflected in the smooth flowing water of the Khadora River. It was an idyllic scene, for the moment. A short distance beyond the sevemore trees that lined the northern bank of the river, three thousand Khadoran archers stood silently, waiting for the order to approach the riverbank and open fire. Across the river the distant telltale sounds of hatchets striking wood drifted in the still night air.
Marshal GeHert of the Nordon clan turned to the air mage next to him and whispered softly, “Inform the Lords’ Council that we have found another spot on the river where the Motangans plan to cross. Notify them that I have three thousand archers ready to counterattack.”
The air mage nodded silently and wove an air tunnel to Sintula. At the other end of the air tunnel, a mage called for Lord Patel. The Nordon lord took the report from Marshal GeHert and hurried into the meeting room where the Lords’ Council was meeting with the emperor.
“Another one,” sighed Lord Patel as he entered the room. “This one from GeHert. He is about six leagues to our east.”
“Have the Motangans started crossing yet?” asked Lord Jamarat.
“Not yet,” answered the Nordon lord, “but they will soon enough. Our men are too spread out.”
“Shamal is no fool,” sighed Emperor Marak. “Even after he knows that we have detected his plan, he is wise enough to know that we cannot foil it completely. With the amount of men that he has, he is capable of extending the front for hundreds of leagues. That is exactly what we have been trying to avoid. We cannot afford to spread ourselves that thin.”
“The only alternative,” countered Lord Quilo, “is to let the Motangans cross the river. I do not see how that aids us.”
“It does not aid us to let them cross,” replied Lord Kiamesh, “but we cannot stop it from happening either. If Shamal succeeds in getting men across the river, our defenses of Sintula are worthless.”
“Worse,” interjected Lord Chenowith, “if his men cross anywhere other than the farthest eastern spot we have detected, he will have some of our archers cut off from Sintula. Those men would die quickly as they tried to get back here.”
“There is no pattern to the spots he has chosen to cross,” added Lord Faliman. “At first they kept going further eastward, but that has changed. This latest attack shows that any spot along the river is a likely crossing place.”
“And the weather has favored us so far,” remarked the Torak. “If this night was overcast, we would be hard pressed to find targets when his men tried to cross the river. We need to start thinking about an orderly retreat.”
“So soon?” asked Lord Jamarat. “The Motangans have not even reached this shore yet.”
“They will soon,” answered the Torak, “If we wait until they attack the city, we will lose thousands of men. I am not suggesting that we evacuate immediately. Just that we start preparing now. My goal is to kill as many Motangans as we can as they try to cross the river, but retreat once they have troops on this side of the river.”
“We keep falling back whenever the Motangans threaten us,” frowned Lord Jamarat. “Our men are willing to stand and fight to defend Khadora. Why not let Sintula be the place to show our bravery?”
“No one questions the bravery of our men, Lord Jamarat,” the Torak smiled tautly, “at least not in this room. Tens of thousands of Khadorans have already given up their lives to halt this Motangan invasion, but that is not the measure of our worth. It is the number of dead Motangans that we need to concentrate on. Go down to the city docks and gaze upon the river. Thousands of Motangan bodies are floating past this city. Shamal is paying a terrible price to cross the Khadora River, but eventually he will succeed. We are not capable of denying him that small victory.”
“But they will destroy Sintula and march on to Chantise,” frowned the simple-minded lord. “Crossing the Charl River will be the only obstacle to stop him from reaching Khadoratung and the Imperial Valley.”
“No, Lord Jamarat,” smiled the emperor. “Shamal will never reach the Charl River.”
“You have a plan in mind?” asked Lord Quilo.
“I do indeed,” nodded Marak. “It is a plan that will require extraordinary planning and extreme secrecy, but it will crush the Motangan army.”
“Then let us plan it and get started on it,” urged Lord Patel.
“The planning is already underway,” confessed the Torak. “I apologize for keeping this council ignorant of the plan, but a single word to the enemy would be disastrous for us. I could not take the chance that one of our men might be captured and tortured, so I have kept knowledge of the plan to myself.”
“Does this plan require that we abandon Sintula earlier than we wish?” frowned Lord Kiamesh. “I am afraid that I agree with Lord Jamarat. The Khadora River is a natural defense for us. Even considering the loss of many Khadorans, we can inflict much more damage on the Motangans by refusing to yield the northern bank of the river.”
“I agree with your assessment,” sighed the Torak, “but my plan does require us to leave Sintula shortly. The Motangans must be in pursuit of us by high sun tomorrow.”
“High sun?” echoed Lord Kiamesh. “They will not be done sacking Sintula by then even if they cross the river right now.”
“They will not pause to sack Sintula,” assured the emperor. “Shamal’s moves shows that he is suddenly in a hurry to finish with Khadora. That haste will destroy him. I will explain my plan now,” he added after a moment’s pause, “but I must warn you that no one outside this room is to learn of it. I must have your vows on this.”