The marshal risked a quick look around the battlefield. There was still no sign of the green dragon, and the two companies he had posted at the waterfront were, with commendable discipline, paying careful attention to their duties instead of watching the distraction of the great battle raging behind them. Likewise, the elves posted on the large portion of the wall that wasn’t currently under attack kept their eyes on the dark forest instead of turning to watch the carnage occurring on their flank. Stallyar, near the base of the commander’s tower, had settled down, though he kept his eyes, unblinking, on his rider. Overhead, the Qualinesti still circled, some shooting into the battle, but most of them keeping their eyes alert for any sign of the great green dragon.
Looking back to the battle line, Porthios saw that the pace of the arrow fire was slackening. Many of the archers had nearly empty quivers.
“More arrows! Get them up to the walls,” shouted Porthios to the elves of his reserve company.
Immediately fresh ammunition was passed up the ladders, and the desultory barrage once again became a furious shower. Everywhere along the base of the wall lay dead and dying monsters, though the living took no notice of the casualties, trampling them mercilessly as they fought for positions adjacent to the palisade. Though Porthios had seen it before, he was amazed to witness ogres with huge clubs, weapons that were far too big and clumsy to fit through the gaps in the palisade, and draconians armed with nothing more than the talons on their clawed hands pressed eagerly up to the fence. There, easy meat for elven swords, they were cut, wounded, and killed.
Screams of alarm pulled the marshal’s attention around to the rear, and he was stunned to see the huge green dragon tearing through one of his companies on the riverbank. Like some horrible apparition from the deep, it was draped in muck and weeds from the river. The sinuous form scattered a glittering cascade, spraying droplets of muddy water as it tore and clawed and bit through a dozen helpless elves. A massive cloud of green murk drifted through the palisade, and Porthios groaned at the knowledge that many of his warriors must have died in that first, lethal exhalation.
He knew that green dragons were excellent swimmers. Why hadn’t he thought of that obvious tactic? The elven commander was infuriated by his own carelessness, at this evidence of one more mistake that had cost lives among his loyal elves.
The Qualinesti on their griffons were diving now, sending dozens of arrows showering into the great wyrm. Rearing high on its rear legs, the dragon spewed another blast of gas into the air, dropping many of the fliers right out of the sky. Lashing with its foreclaws, striking like a snake with its head on its long, supple neck, the creature ripped other elves from their saddles or knocked griffons to the ground, each time leaving a trailing plume of fluttering white feathers.
And then there was another alarm, and Porthios saw that a bare stretch of wall was faced by a new attack. This force, a band that had been held back from the main attack with admirable discipline, was made up entirely of draconians. The creatures raced across the stumpy field, hurling themselves up the palisade with flapping wings. At the same time, more of the creatures spiraled down from the sky to land atop the parapet. These were sivaks, the marshal was certain, the one kind of draconian capable of true flight.
Now his reserve was entangled by the sudden rush of the dragon, and the weary troops along the palisade were still engaged by the original attack. He was appalled to see elf after elf knocked from the parapet by the sivaks, who carried massive, jagged-edged swords that they wielded with both of their hands clutching the hilts. Other draconians swarmed up and over the wall, while elves on the ground struggled up the ladders to reinforce their comrades overhead. But now, for a change, it was the monsters who held the higher position, and the elves found themselves battling up narrow ladders, precariously balanced as they tried to wield their swords against the hulking creatures overhead. One after another of the elves was bashed from the ladders to plummet hard onto the unforgiving ground.
Porthios absorbed the changes in the battle over the course of ten or twelve heartbeats, and then he knew what he had to do. Sliding down the ladder from the tower rampart, he whistled for Stallyar and saw the griffon race over to meet him. Leaping into the saddle, the marshal was shouting orders as the creature lifted him into the air.
“Elves on the towers—give them support over there!” he shouted, directing the archers to shoot at the draconians who had claimed a portion of the wall top. He glanced over and saw that the dragon was still wreaking terrible havoc in the camp, but that the Qualinesti on their griffons had circled up and away and were seriously distracting the creature with their vexing missile fire.
Stallyar knew where his master was needed, and as soon as he was twenty feet off the ground, he flew on a level course directly at the big sivak who seemed to be directing the battle on top of the wall. The monster looked up briefly, jaws gaping wide as it saw the vengeful griffon, and then the crushing beak tore a great gouge in the draconian’s scalp. Stallyar’s eagle talons picked the screaming creature up and dumped it over the wall,
The griffon came to light on the narrow parapet, and Porthios slid over his mount’s tail. The silver long sword reached out almost of its own will to cut the arm off of a charging sivak, and on the backstroke, the elf chopped the draconian hard to the side, knocking the dying creature onto the ground inside the palisade. There the body burst into oily flame, the dying pyrotechnics of a sivak.
More draconians closed in, and the sword became a whirling blur of bright steel and slick blood. Behind him, Porthios heard the griffon crowing savagely and knew that Stallyar was rending creatures limb from limb with his beak. Back to back, the two stood in the middle of the parapet and dared any of the attackers to close with them.
Despite the gory wounds scored by his elven long sword, many of the draconians accepted the dare. One after another, they lunged along the narrow platform, stabbing, clawing, seeking to drag him down. The marshal’s arm grew numb from wielding his weapon, but his mind was clouded by a battle haze that banished any thoughts of fatigue, of despair. He lunged, cut, and parried, stepping inexorably forward and driving the press of draconians back. Taloned hands reached for him, and he sliced through scales, laying flesh open to the bone. Jaws snapped, and his blade whipped downward, carving nostrils, gouging eyes, even hacking right through skulls, cutting into wicked brains. His face, his hands, and his arms were scorched by the flames spouting from these dying monsters, but always there were more ready to lunge over their fallen comrades, eager to attack and kill.
A massive sivak stood in his path, wings flexing like a great battle cloak. The draconian wielded a huge sword, and it brought the weapon straight down, like an axeman trying to split a solid stump. Desperately Porthios raised his sword, blocking the blow with a clang of steel that echoed across the battlefield. The force of the attack numbed his arm, but when the sivak pulled back for another strike, the elf darted with serpentine quickness, driving his bloody blade into the sivak’s belly. The draconian howled in anguish even as flames crackled around the fringes of its body, and as it died and burned, the marshal kicked it off of the parapet and lunged forward, still seeking new foes.
When at last the draconians started to back away, to see that there was no point in attacking this infuriated elf, it was Porthios who carried the attack forward. On his own, he charged, swinging his blade with an apparent wildness that frightened even the savage denizens of the nightmare island. Only the elven marshal knew that the wildness was a sham, that each cut was carefully calculated to injure and kill his foes, and yet leave the elf in position to recover quickly, to insure that he didn’t leave himself open to any daring retaliation.