But before then, they would be vulnerable. This was the same tactic the marshal had developed over long experience during the cleansing of Silvanesti. On occasion, Aeren had learned, the elves had been attacked by resentful denizens of the nightmare before they had a chance to complete their defenses. In those cases, the elves had survived by a rapid withdrawal, with a sudden return and a construction of their fort in a new place.
None of those attacks had been landed on a hostile shore, however, and it was this fact that gave Aeren hope. The current would press the boats hard against the riverbank, making any withdrawal exceptionally difficult. Instead, the invading army would be forced to fight where it was, ill-prepared and unfortified. And they would have no idea that a major force was lurking in these woods, alerted to the elven approach and prepared to launch a deadly ambush.
Watching as he tried to suppress his natural impatience, Aeren saw the elven boats pull up to shore, their blunt prows driving into the muddy bank, hull to hull across a breadth of three or four hundred paces. The invading warriors leaped onto the ground and quickly spread out, axes ringing into tree trunks within a minute after the first troops had landed. The second flotilla, off to the right, had drifted out of sight behind the curve of the island’s shore. The green dragon suspected that those boats hadn’t reach shore yet, so he refrained from making any move, giving any sign of the ambushing force lurking in the shelter of the woods. He wanted to make sure the other force had landed, their boats grounded in soft muck so they would be unable to come to the aid of their beleaguered comrades.
But soon it would be time to attack.
Very, very soon.
Porthios scanned the broad shore of the island, trying to reassure himself that things were developing according to plan. He saw that the First Division, in the west, was already drawing up to shore. The Second Division was still a mile or more from its designated landing zone but was closing fast, borne by the current and by the diligent efforts of the elven polers.
Stallyar banked along the shore, flying low and parallel to the riverbank. The marshal wore the greenmask as a precaution and was pleased to find that he could breathe quite easily through the gauzy material. Still, he was nervous and edgy. He squinted into the dank vegetation, trying to reassure himself that there could be no real threat there. After all, he and Samar had thoroughly scouted the island. A few hundred, even a thousand or more, draconians would be no match for either one of his divisions, even supposing that the disorganized monsters could somehow muster the coordination to attack together. It was far more likely that individual bands of the creatures would try to offer what resistance they could and would be slaughtered by the elven phalanxes. Porthios even allowed himself to hope that this might be a relatively bloodless campaign for his own troops. The elves had skilled healers, and all but the most grievous of wounds could be magically healed so long as there weren’t too many injured all at the same time.
The First Division was well on the way toward clearing a swath of shore. Already axemen were working on sharpening the trunks of felled trees, while the cutters worked their way farther and farther inland. Half his griffon-mounted Qualinesti, under the command of Tarqualan, soared in circles over the troops, keeping alert eyes on the woodland, with arrows ready to shoot if any target presented itself. Unfortunately, Porthios knew that the dense undergrowth created little chance of seeing a target that didn’t want to be seen.
With a mild tug on the reins, Porthios pulled Stallyar around, then urged the griffon to hurry as they flew toward the boats of the Second Division. Coming around the bend at the northern point of the island, he saw that those boats were finally drawing near to shore. A hundred griffons wheeled overhead, archers studying the bank where the vessels would make their landing.
Porthios joined these fliers, allowing Stallyar’s powerful wings to stretch into an easy glide. The boats, driven by strong pushes on the poles, churned up little wakes of white water, then nudged firmly into the soft muck of the banks. In another minute, the elves of the Second Division were swarming ashore, attacking the corrupted trees with as much vigor as had their comrades two miles away along the shore of the island.
The thin notes of a trumpet trailed through the wind, so faint that at first Porthios thought he must have imagined it. But then the call was repeated, the distinctive, ascending three-note cry that meant only one thing: We are being attacked!
Even before Porthios could pull on the reins, Stallyar banked and dived, picking up speed as he carried the marshal toward the sound of the alarm. They swept just above the trees, cutting over the island rather than taking the longer route over the water.
It was this detour that undoubtedly saved his life.
As the griffon flew at a frantic speed, Porthios had eyes only for the elven troops of the First Division. The first thing he noticed was that the griffons and their archers, who had been circling over their comrades on the ground, were now diving toward the woods. Arrows were showering down into the trees, clear enough proof that his soldiers were being attacked.
The second thing to catch his attention was a writhing, shimmering shape twisting through the treetops directly below. His mind registered the identification—this was a dragon, and a big one.
The blast of poisonous gas erupted upward from widespread jaws, a green cloud boiling and churning into the air. The seething mist swirled just beyond Stallyar’s right wing, and Porthios saw that the dragon had tilted its sinuous neck all the way over its back to spew its lethal breath at the flying elf. The attack was awkward, and that enabled the griffon to dive away from the deadly cloud. Stallyar cawed angrily as the tendrils of mist burned his eyes, while Porthios blinked and gagged, grateful for the protection of the mask.
Even as branches lashed his face while Stallyar ducked below the top layer of the forest, Porthios was thinking about that attack. The dragon had been invisible—he had seen the effects of the spell fade as the monster burst into motion—and it had been waiting for him. If he had been flying over the river, along the bank, as he had been since the first boats landed, he would inevitably have glided directly into his death.
The griffon’s foreclaws, powerful eagle talons, seized a limb and pulled, the leonine rear legs pushing off the same branch to catapult the creature back into the skies. Porthios risked a glance and saw that the dragon, a massive green wyrm, was disentangling itself from the treetops. Enormous wings beat, crushing branches and leaves, but the monster’s own size worked against it.
In moments, the marshal was flying over the encampment, and Porthios was appalled to see the chaos reigning below. More than a thousand winged humanoids, many bearing hooked swords, while others attacked with their talons and crushing jaws, had swarmed from the shelter of the woods to strike the elven work parties. His first glance showed at least a hundred torn, bleeding bodies lying in the wake of the initial attackers, while more of the axemen were falling back to the boats.
From the flanks of the forest, a great, lumbering line of creatures emerged. These were ogres, bashing with huge clubs, some wielding long spears, others carrying sticks like tree trunks as they struck the unprepared elves on the right and the left. Massive feet thudded across the ground as growls rose thickly over the field. The first elves to meet this charge were instantly smashed down, crushed lifeless beneath the brutal onslaught.
The veteran warriors of the First Division were making a valiant effort to handle the shock. Already they had a semblance of a line formed, a barrier of silvery swords that blocked the draconians’ advance and forced the savage creatures to hit their enemies head-on. In line, each elf relied on the presence of his comrades to right and left, and there were no warriors on Krynn more skilled with the long sword than a veteran elf.