charged through the arrows and leaped high into the air, one after the other, and cleared the wall. Spearmen were there waiting, and one of the beasts came down on a brave elf who had planted his spear in a crook in the stone. The beast landed, crushing the elf beneath it, but also impaling itself through the gut and out the back. It roared and batted away the attacks of the frantically stabbing spearmen. The other dwargon tore through the ranks with ease. To their credit, the elves stood their ground, but they paid for it with their lives.
Zerafin watched, horrified, as the two monsters rampaged through the elven army. The roar of many men sounded in the fog—the second wave was coming. The dwargon had been a distraction; they did not fight for the men of Old Arden, likely they had been trapped somehow and chained to a barge that was then run aground upon the beach. The humans did not control the beasts…they didn’t have to.
“Charge!” Zerafin cried, and the horsemen complied.
The dwargon were meant to disorient the elves and cause chaos. Rather than flee, Zerafin led his horsemen through the gates of the wall and onto the beach, leaving behind the two beasts to be dealt with by the others.
His horse carried him across the sand as others sped up to protect their king, yet he would not be overtaken. A rage had been building inside of Zerafin since the Taking. His mother’s illness—and his own impotence to help her only fueled the flames.
Through the fog the army came like ghosts in a dream. Zerafin impaled one with his spear and tossed it to the side. A sword swung for him and he was forced to raise a shield to it. His horse trampled through the men, and Zerafin took up his sword, wetting the beaches with the blood of his enemies. When they reached the water—and a clear patch in the fog—he saw a small fleet had landed, more than a dozen in all. Still more ships came from the north and east, flying banners of Old Arden.
“Protect the king!” an elf cried, and many came to his aid.
He wanted none of it. The frustration of the last few months fueled his strikes. He slew a half a dozen men in the fog. The battleground was a whiteout, which gave him and his elves the advantage over the charging men. Without magic, however, they soon began to tire. Zerafin fought through the fatigue, turning away strikes with his long shield and coloring the ocean red with blood. He ducked for a flying spear and leaped from his horse, coming down hard on a man with a wooden spear and no armor to speak of. Twirling, Zerafin slashed the throat of another, and dodged the sword strike of one coming at his back.
The sound of more boats landing gave him pause. Slain elves lay dead in the water alongside the humans.
“Fall back!” he called out as he and his soldiers ran from the ocean.
Avriel heard the warning cries and called to Zorriaz. She put on her armor while she waited, and took her most trusted bow from its place on the wall. Shouldering a quiver of arrows and sheathing her sword, she ran out to the balcony. Zorriaz had come to her call, and glided in from the south. She landed on the balcony and Avriel quickly spurred her to the north.
When she reached the beach, she found that many ships had made landfall, and many more were coming from the northwest. “Protect the elves!” Avriel cried.
Zorriaz flew through the fog and bathed the boats in a swath of flame two hundred feet long. Another pass lit those that had already made landfall. The people hadn’t anticipated a dragon, and even those who could get off a shot found their arrows could not penetrate Zorriaz’s hide. Avriel used her bow to devastating effect, and their appearance on the beach spurred the elves into a second charge.
The battle for the beach lasted nearly an hour, and when the fogs finally lifted and parted for the sun, many elves bloodied the ground—too many. The human forces had only numbered a few hundred, yet the strike had been a
Zerafin watched, horrified, as the two monsters rampaged through the elven army. The roar of many men sounded in the fog—the second wave was coming. The dwargon had been a distraction; they did not fight for the men of Old Arden, likely they had been trapped somehow and chained to a barge that was then run aground upon the beach. The humans did not control the beasts…they didn’t have to.
“Charge!” Zerafin cried, and the horsemen complied.
The dwargon were meant to disorient the elves and cause chaos. Rather than flee, Zerafin led his horsemen through the gates of the wall and onto the beach, leaving behind the two beasts to be dealt with by the others.
His horse carried him across the sand as others sped up to protect their king, yet he would not be overtaken. A rage had been building inside of Zerafin since the Taking. His mother’s illness—and his own impotence to help her only fueled the flames.
Through the fog the army came like ghosts in a dream. Zerafin impaled one with his spear and tossed it to the side. A sword swung for him and he was forced to raise a shield to it. His horse trampled through the men, and Zerafin took up his sword, wetting the beaches with the blood of his enemies. When they reached the water—and a clear patch in the fog—he saw a small fleet had landed, more than a dozen in all. Still more ships came from the north and east, flying banners of Old Arden.
“Protect the king!” an elf cried, and many came to his aid.
He wanted none of it. The frustration of the last few months fueled his strikes. He slew a half a dozen men in the fog. The battleground was a whiteout, which gave him and his elves the advantage over the charging men. Without magic, however, they soon began to tire. Zerafin fought through the fatigue, turning away strikes with his long shield and coloring the ocean red with blood. He ducked for a flying spear and leaped from his horse, coming down hard on a man with a wooden spear and no armor to speak of. Twirling, Zerafin slashed the throat of another, and dodged the sword strike of one coming at his back.
The sound of more boats landing gave him pause. Slain elves lay dead in the water alongside the humans.
“Fall back!” he called out as he and his soldiers ran from the ocean.
Avriel heard the warning cries and called to Zorriaz. She put on her armor while she waited, and took her most trusted bow from its place on the wall. Shouldering a quiver of arrows and sheathing her sword, she ran out to the balcony. Zorriaz had come to her call, and glided in from the south. She landed on the balcony and Avriel quickly spurred her to the north.
When she reached the beach, she found that many ships had made landfall, and many more were coming from the northwest. “Protect the elves!” Avriel cried.
Zorriaz flew through the fog and bathed the boats in a swath of flame two hundred feet long. Another pass lit those that had already made landfall. The people hadn’t anticipated a dragon, and even those who could get off a shot found their arrows could not penetrate Zorriaz’s hide. Avriel used her bow to devastating effect, and their appearance on the beach spurred the elves into a second charge.
The battle for the beach lasted nearly an hour, and when the fogs finally lifted and parted for the sun, many elves bloodied the ground—too many. The human forces had only numbered a few hundred, yet the strike had been a
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