But the problem with the line came from its flanks. The ogres rolled against both right and left sides, and without supporting formations to screen, the tenuous line was inevitably being chewed away. One after another, elves turned from the frontal attack to face the threat from the flank, only to perish beneath the weight of the monstrous, club-wielding humanoids.
Porthios gave a quick glance behind him. The green dragon had broken from the trees and was winging after him, but it was slow to accelerate and somewhat clumsy in the cramped quarters. Still, it seemed to pursue him with singular, deadly purpose The elf reckoned that he had about a minute to issue orders and take action before he would once more have to flee for his life. He pulled back on the reins and Stallyar climbed, winging desperately toward the Qualinesti on their griffons. These elves were busy shooting arrows into the attackers, but their efforts were uncoordinated. Many shot at the draconians, while a few directed their lethal missiles at the ogres on the right and left flanks.
Porthios saw Tarqualan trying to make order of the chaos.
“There! Concentrate your fire on the near flank!” shouted the marshal. “We’ve got to stop the ogres or the whole division is lost!”
“Yes, lord!” shouted the captain, immediately turning to signal his disorganized flying troops.
Again the marshal stole a glance, and he saw the green dragon bearing down. The yellow eyes were unblinking, the slitted pupils fixed unerringly on him. With an anguished look down at the battle, Porthios knew that he was needed down there. His leadership, and his sword, might give some hope of stabilizing that brave but crumbling line. Yet there was no mistaking the serpent’s purposeful pursuit, and if he flew down to join his army, the commander knew that the dragon would bring its indiscriminate attack down there as well.
Instead, Porthios pulled the reins to the left. Stallyar, with a momentary squawk of confused protest, obeyed, driving his powerful wings through the air, veering away from the battle and the river, carrying his master over the dank forest of the island. Roaring in fury, the dragon followed, cutting the angle on the inside of Porthios’s turn, closing the distance between hunter and quarry as the massive monster built up more and more speed. Wind scoured the elven marshal’s face and stung tears from his eyes as he laid his head flat along the griffon’s powerful neck.
The elf knew he would never outdistance the dragon in straight, level flight, but he had to put some distance between the serpent and the desperate battle. He looked over his shoulder, fighting off the inevitable quiver of dragonawe as he saw that the beast was closing rapidly.
“There! Dive!” shouted Porthios, pointing to a gap between a couple of tall, leafless tree trunks.
Stallyar responded instantly, tucking his wings, veering through a turn that would have pulled the elf out of the saddle if he had not been firmly seated. Again branches lashed his skin, and Porthios buried his face more firmly in the soft feathers of the griffon’s neck. He felt them drop swiftly through the brittle limbs of the dead tree, plunging out of the sky with precipitous haste.
They landed with a thud hard enough to knock the wind out of the rider, but the griffon, unfazed, used the ground to pounce directly sideways. Scampering catlike through a maze of thick, dead limbs, the creature raced through an arc that carried them back to the north. Porthios hung on with desperation, knowing his only chance for survival rested with the griffon’s quickness and natural instincts for escape.
With a bellow of rage, the dragon dropped into the trees. Massive trunks snapped like twigs, including a forest giant that crashed to the ground directly before Stallyar. Without hesitation, the griffon leapt the barrier, then used the branches and his powerful wings to lift mount and rider back into the sky.
The dragon smashed to the ground, and once again green gases spumed upward. This time the cloud was far behind Stallyar’s tail, and without any urging from Porthios, the griffon sped toward the battle raging on the riverbank. The great dragon was left below and behind them, roaring in frustration and splintering trees to right and left as it fought to free itself from the tangle.
Two or more miles away, the battlefield was nevertheless easy to mark, since Tarqualan’s Qualinesti still wheeled on their griffons over the site of the elven landing. But as Porthios drew closer and looked down into the clearing on the riverbank, he groaned under an onslaught of disbelief and despair.
The elven line was a shambles. The draconians had broken through in the center, and though the arrows from the flying archers had slowed the ogre onslaught on the left, they had done nothing to check the hammer blow against the right flank. Now scattered parties of Silvanesti fought to reach the boats, or at least to give a good account of themselves in their last fight. Draconians swarmed over the hulls of two or three riverboats, while a fourth was already smoking. More sooty plumes marked the progress of torches as the attackers raced from boat to boat, obviously intending to put the whole fleet to the torch.
Even worse, Porthios saw that two more green dragons—not as huge as his pursuer, but formidable monsters nonetheless—had slithered from the woods to join in the slaughter. Disdaining to use their lethal breath weapons against this disorganized and scattering foe, the wyrms pounced on individual elves and tore them to pieces with their jaws and talons. Each of the dragons left a trail of blood and gore in its wake and was given a wide berth by the ogres and draconians that also continued the slaughter.
The sight of the serpentine killers was too much for Porthios’s already frayed emotions. In the midst of all the horror, of the knowledge that this expedition had already turned into a disaster, he saw a young green dragon bite a fleeing elf in two. His self-control and sense of reason snapped, and he put his heels hard into Stallyar’s flank, pushing the griffon’s head down toward the hateful lizard.
Nothing loath, the bold flier sensed his master’s intentions and willingly obeyed, even to the point of biting back the shrill cry of challenge that would have automatically accompanied such a swooping attack. Instead, as silent as a wisp of wind, the griffon and the elf plunged toward the back of the rampaging dragon. Porthios had his slender long sword in his hand, the blade of purest elven steel gleaming like cold fire in the late afternoon sun. It was a hallowed weapon, blessed by the gods of goodness and borne by three generations of elven heroes. Stallyar’s talons were extended, as if the creature were eager to reach the dragon, to wring the life out of that hateful, scaly shape.
They dropped like a missile, wind rushing through Porthios’ hair and pulling tears from his eyes, though he never lost sight of the dragon, which was now coiling for another pounce. At the last minute, the griffon’s feathered wings spread wide, slowing the dive just enough to spare them injury from the crash. The rush of air became audible, and the dragon lifted its head fractionally, undoubtedly sensing the presence overhead.
But it was too late for any other reaction. Stallyar’s talons seized both sides of the wyrm’s head, the force of the griffon’s weight smashing downward to drive the monster against the ground. The lion’s paws of the griffon’s rear legs tore at the green dragon’s shoulders while the serpent lay stunned and writhing on the ground. Swiftly the eagle’s beak jabbed down and tore a great gash in the top of the wyrm’s broad, flat skull.