“Send out the scouting party,” Silvan ordered. “Bring back word the moment they have located the enemy commanders.”
The scouts proceeded ahead through the woods, edging closer to the field of battle. Silvan waited, watching the progress of the war.
Combat was hand to hand. The archers on both sides were now effectively useless, with the armies locked together in a bloody embrace. At first, Silvan could make nothing of the confusion he looked upon, but after watching several moments, it seemed to him that the elf army was gaining ground.
“A glorious victory already, Your Majesty,” his commander said in triumph. “The vermin are falling back!”
“Yes, you are right,” Silvan replied, and he frowned.
“Your Majesty does not seem pleased. We are crushing the human insects!”
“So it would seem,” said Silvan. “But if you look closely, Commander, you will note that the enemy is not running in panic. They are falling back, certainly, but their movements are calculated, disciplined. See how they hold their line? See how one man steps in to take the place if another falls? Our troops, on the other hand,” he added with disgust, “have gone completely berserk!”
The elves, seeing the enemy in retreat, had broken ranks and were flailing at the enemy in a murderous rage, heedless of the shouts and cries of their commanders. Competing trumpet calls sounded over the screams of the wounded and dying, fighting their own battle. Silvan noted that the Dark Knights listened closely for their trumpet calls and responded immediately to the brayed commands, while the maddened elves were deaf to all.
“Still,” Silvan said, “we cannot help but win, seeing that we outnumber them so greatly. The only way could possibly lose would be to turn our swords on ourselves. I will have a few words with General Konnal on my return, however. Samar would never permit such a lack of discipline.”
“Your Majesty!” One of the scouts returned, riding at a full gallop. “We have located the officers!”
Silvan turned his horse’s head, rode after the scout. They had advanced only a short way through the forest, before they met up with another scout, who had been left to keep watch.
He pointed. “There, Your Majesty. On that rise. They’re easy to see.”
So they were. A huge minotaur, the first Silvan had ever seen, stood upon the rise. The minotaur wore the regalia of a Knight of Neraka. A massive sword was buckled at his side. He was watching the progress of the battle intently. Twelve more Knights, mounted on horses, were also observing the battle. Beside them stood the standard-bearer, holding a flag that might have once been white, but was now a dirty brownish red color, as if it had been soaked in blood. An aide stood nearby, holding the reins of a magnificent red horse.
“Surely the minotaur is their commander,” Silvan said. “We were misinformed.”
“No, Your Majesty,” the scout replied. “See there, behind the minotaur. That is the commander, the one with the blood-red sash.”
Silvan could not see her, at first and then the minotaur stepped to one side to confer with another of the Knights. Behind him, a slight, delicate human female stood on a knoll, her gaze fixed with rapt intensity upon the battle. She carried her helm beneath her arm. A morning star hung from a belt at her waist.
“That is their commander?” Silvan said, amazed. “She does not look old enough to be attending her first dance, much less leading seasoned troops into battle.”
As if she had heard him, though that was impossible, for she was a good forty yards distant, she turned her face toward him.
He felt himself suddenly exposed to her view, and he backed up hurriedly, keeping to the deep shadows of the dense woods.
She stared in his direction for long moments, and Silvan was certain that they had been seen. He was about to order his men forward, when she turned her head away. She said something to the minotaur, apparently, for he left his conference and walked over to her. Even from this distance, Silvan could see that the minotaur regarded the girl with the utmost respect, even reverence. He listened intently to her orders, looked over his shoulder at the battle and nodded his homed head.
He turned and, with a wave of his hand, summoned the mounted Knights. With a roar, the minotaur ran forward toward the rear of his own lines. The Knights galloped after him, with what purpose Silvan could not tell. A countercharge, perhaps.
“Now is our chance, Your Majesty!” said the commander excitedly. “She stands alone.”
This was beyond all possible luck, so far beyond that Silvan mistrusted his good fortune. He hesitated before ordering his men forward, fearing a trap.
“Your Majesty!” the commander urged. “What are you waiting for?”
Silvan looked and looked. He could see no troops lying in ambush. The mounted Knights of the enemy were riding away from their commander.
Silvan spurred his horse and galloped forward, the other soldiers streaming behind him. They rode with the swiftness of an arrow, with Silvan as the silver arrowhead, aiming straight at the enemy’s heart. They were halfway to their destination before anyone was aware of them. The girl kept her gaze fixed on her forces. It was her standard-bearer who spotted them. He cried out and pointed. The red horse lifted its head, whinnied loud enough to rival the trumpets.
At the sound, the minotaur halted in his charge and turned around.
Silvan kept the minotaur in the comer of his eye as he rode, dug his spurs into his horse’s flank, urging more speed. The mad race was exhilarating. A skilled rider, he outdistanced his bodyguard. He was not far from his objective now. She must have heard the pounding hooves, but still she did not turn her head.
A great and terrible roar sounded over the battlefield. A roar of grief and rage and fury. A roar so horrible that the sound caused Silvan’s stomach to shrivel and brought beads of sweat to his forehead. He looked to see the minotaur rushing for him, a great sword raised to cleave him in twain. Silvan gritted his teeth and pressed the horse forward. If he could lay his hands on the girl, he would use her as both shield and hostage.
The minotaur was extraordinarily fast. Though he was on foot and Silvan was mounted, it seemed that the racing minotaur must reach Silvan before Silvan’s horse could reach the enemy commander. Silvan looked from the minotaur to the girl. She had still taken no notice of him. She seemed completely unaware of her danger. Her gaze was fixed upon the minotaur.
“Galdar,” she called, her voice beautifully clear, oddly deep.
“Remember your oath.”
Her voice resounded over the cries and screams and clashing steel. The call acted upon the minotaur like a spear to his heart.
He ceased his furious rush. He stared at her, his gaze pleading.
She did not relent, or so it seemed. She shifted her gaze from him to the heavens. The minotaur gave another howl of rage and then plunged his sword into the ground, drove it into the cornfield with such force that he buried it halfway to the hilt.
Silvan galloped up the rise. At last the girl shifted her gaze from the heavens. She turned her eyes full upon Silvan.
Amber eyes. Silvan had never seen the like. Her eyes did not repel him but drew him forward. He rode toward her, and he could see nothing but her eyes. It seemed he was riding into them.
She clasped her morning star, hefted it in her hand, and stood waiting him fearlessly.
Silvan dashed his horse up the small rise, came level with the girl. She struck at him with the morning star, a blow he deflected easily, kicking it aside with his foot. Another kick knocked the morning star from her hand and sent her staggering backward.