Chapter 88: Clash at the Bridgehead

This land, generation upon generation, has basked in the glory of Airandil and all the northern nobles!

You elves crawling out from some godforsaken backwater—what right have you to make any demands of us!

Arendel’s roar trembled the air.

With a grating clang, he had already drawn his sword in defiance, pointing it straight ahead:

Prepare for battle! Charge!

The command fell like a mountain, yet long after the words died, silence reigned—only the rustle of metal on metal.

Arendel’s pupils contracted sharply—

the guards he had brought clutched their shields high overhead, bodies huddled behind like turtles in their shells.

His face flushed crimson; he spat curses:

“Look at you lot! My order was to charge—!”

“So, you intend to refuse our proposal?”

The elder elf’s voice drifted from behind him, eerily calm, chilling to the bone.

Arendel whirled around, fury nearly erupting from his eyes:

“Spare me your condescending—”

Before he could finish, the elder elf waved a hand dismissively.

Arendel’s heart jolted inexplicably; the venomous words caught in his throat as he felt his wrist seized by an iron grip, an urgent voice exploding at his ear:

“My lord!

Get down now!”

Caught off guard, with no chance to resist, he was yanked from the saddle, stumbling as he was hauled into the fray.

Still reeling, he realized it was his adjutant who had pulled his sword—and now the man was barking rebukes, while extending a burly arm to shove him down:

Duck!

Don’t move!

Arendel was forced to crouch, peering barely over the shield wall to see the dozen or so elven archers loosing their bows.

Mid-flight, anomaly struck—the air rippled like disturbed water, and those sparse arrows split and multiplied as if alive—one became two, two four; in a blink, the clear sky was smothered in a dense shroud of arrow shadows, unleashing a storm of death from nowhere!

Thud!

Thud!

Thud!

As the rain of shafts hammered the shields, erupting in unending dull booms, Arendel truly grasped the peril through the violent tremors in his arms—those phantom arrows were no mere illusions to fool the eye!

Each bore icy intent, tangible magic-forged barbs capable of piercing steel and rending stone!

Highland elven magerangers . . .

this is elite stock.

Arendel heard his weathered adjutant, battle-hardened and grizzled, mutter low, voice heavy with gravity.

Even the magerangers have been deployed—

this affair runs far deeper than we imagined.

“Heh . . .”

Arendel gasped raggedly, his mind replaying the terror of that sky-darkening volley.

Had it not been for the adjutant . . .

he would likely be a pincushion by now . . .

By fortune, the elven line held no immediate second salvo.

Arendel eyed the shaken soldiers around him, their shield wall fraying at the edges, then heard the elder elf’s voice ring clear and cold from across:

“This, then, is our qualification.

You call this a threat.”

Arendel fell silent a moment, then shrugged off the adjutant’s hand on his shoulder.

“By your human customs, to be sure— it is a threat.”

The elder elf spoke unhurriedly:

Had we no intent to threaten, you would never have had the chance to scurry behind your turtle shells—

nor would the arrows have been mere child’s play, as before.

“. . . What do you want?”

Arendel glared across the bridge at the elves, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

“You . . .

all of you, lay down your arms, shed your armor—

and come with us.”

“You said it was just an inspection!”

Facing the elves’ escalated terms, Arendel snarled.

“This isn’t what we agreed!”

“Evidently,”

the elder elf replied flatly, as if stating plain fact,

“you rejected our prior concession.

Thus, these are now the sole terms.”

Arendel’s face twisted; he locked eyes coldly with the elder elf— though an elf of long life, the fellow’s hair was snow-white, face etched with deep creases in stark senescence.

How many years had he seen?

Three centuries?

Five?

Or more?

But . . .

did he think this would cow him?

“Then,”

he said, retreating unhurriedly into the shield wall’s shelter, gaze never breaking from the elder’s, unyielding,

“there’s nothing left to discuss between us.”

Fully withdrawn into the line, he snapped his hand up, his voice a blade severing the last illusions:

Form ranks!

The elder elf said no more; that withered hand swept forward, gesture casual yet resolute.

The order passed wordlessly, but the far bank responded at once—the dozen-odd elven archers drew in unison, motions fluid as one.

Bowstrings thrummed; another wave of arrows arced skyward.

At apex, the air shimmered with that familiar arcane ripple; a dozen shafts proliferated in an instant, birthing a sky-obscuring deluge of death.

Unlike before, this volley’s tips gleamed with icy blue frost; others trailed crimson wakes of flame.

Shields up!

Hold the line!

An officer bellowed hoarsely from the rear.

The guards clenched jaws, pressing bodies firm against their shields.

The next instant, the ice-and-fire rain crashed upon the wall.

Boom!

Bang!

Boom!

Bang!

Impacts rang ceaseless.

Frost arrows burst, rime spreading swift across metal faces; shield-bearers’ arms went numb in a flash, boards weighing like boulders.

Fire arrows detonated fiercely, embers scattering to ignite leather bindings at the rims, even singeing exposed hands and cheeks, drawing stifled groans of agony.

The phalanx shuddered under elemental assault, its tight formation slackening.

The elves observed coolly, their fire precise— not a blanket barrage, but targeted strikes at key junctures.

One oak shield, battered by repeated ice hits, groaned at last under the strain; with a crack, its face splintered through.

The bearer had no time to react before an arrow snaked the breach, striking true to his chest.

He staggered back, disbelief etched on his face, collapsing.

A gap yawned in the line.

Plug it!

Seal it now!

The adjutant shouted in desperation.

A sweat-drenched soldier yelled, thrusting his shield to cover the fatal rent.

Two more gritted teeth, straining to overlap boards and veil the vulnerability.

The elven rain, scenting blood like sharks, converged on the patch.

Thud!

Thud!

Crack!

The fresh shield fractured; its holder spat blood from the shock, propped only by comrades’ shoulders.

The entire wall moaned in torment; each backward step gouged furrows in the earth.

Faces paled, arms quaked, sheer will the sole brace.

Yet the relentless barrage seemed to crest.

The density and arcane glow waned imperceptibly; that deathly drumbeat faltered for the first time—not from reloading’s pause.

But in that hinge of waning force and nascent surge—the phalanx stirred.

The elves watched impassively as the vast shields parted left and right, like a crumbling dike deliberately breaching.

Light flooded the gap, illuminating the ready torrent behind.

Viscount Arendel led the breach, planted firm in its midst.

Freshly donned in full plate, it gleamed coldly in the dim; visor clamped down, only eyes ablaze with grim resolve showed.

No bellow, no pause—at the shields’ sundering, he spurred viciously; his destrier loosed a rending neigh, hurling forward like a javelin flung with all might, erupting from the rent!

Follow me!

Charge!

The next breath, cavalry poured from the cleft!

No heavy plate of knights—mere leather-and-mail for speed’s sake, their rustles blending as they accelerated with startling swiftness.

Arendel leaned low, lance leveled ahead; man and mount became a skimming arrow.

The riders behind split into a crisp wedge.

The core pack trailed him; three dozen lances couched as one, birthing a lethal steel thicket in the gallop; hooves thundering on stone like rolling peals, numbing chests.

In the same beat, the flanks displayed uncanny horsemanship.

No blind sprint—they veered wide, rising suddenly on pitching saddles to nock and loose—fletch after fletch!

A black cloud of arrows streaked the span—not at the elven front, but arcing sly to pelt the rearward archer ranks!

This mounted barrage threw the elves into disarray.

Though masters of their craft, these magerangers, long from the fray, broke their volley—dodging, parrying—their line wavered; the next rain scattered thin.

Arendel’s point pricked the bridgehead.

His tip snaked a flaw in the gut of the facing elven swordsman, momentum impaling him from the saddle; the riders behind thrust spears with frenzied haste, skewering the cloth-clad foes defenseless as the press bowled the first rank flying.

Crack of bone, snap of steel, elven cries, human roars—mingled in an instant.

Line sundered, seize the thief’s head—Arendel’s eyes snapped to the elven lord, that elder rooted rearward.

Now, the ancient’s bony wrist upheld his staff, tracing frantic sigils; lips shaped eldritch chants, air warping as dread power coalesced at his fingertips—a mighty offensive spell near birth!

“Not on my watch!”

Arendel dug heels deep; the charger lunged in pain, vaulting the fallen to the mark!

All might channeled to his right, the lance became silver lightning, rending air for the elder’s throat—to shatter the casting raw!

The thrust was blinding swift.

Yet as the head neared flesh—

The elder spied Arendel too; the interminable incantation ceased.

Forsaking the grand weave, his right forefinger’s gem ring flared crimson; a translucent ward, etched in antique runes, crystallized before him like fluid crystal.

Boom—!

The point smashed the gloss, birthing a thunderous thud!

No pierce as envisioned—all charge vanished like a cow into mire; then a fiercer backlash surged up the shaft!

Arendel’s arms screamed asunder, innards twisting; hurled like catapult shot, he flew backward from the mount, crashing yards off in the muck, lance wrenched free.

The elder’s gloss buckled wildly, fading fast.

His face blanched; he wheezed sharply—

In the same pulse, the riderless steed, caught in the spell’s recoil, uttered a piteous wail; forelegs buckled, it toppled thunderously—yet the honed war-beast’s husk outlasted the rider.

Arendel groaned but an instant, then lurched upright, lunging anew at the elder!

The ancient had scarce drawn breath, raising to resume the verse, when Arendel staggered into range—not a charge, more a slog through sludge in final throes.

Precision warped by exhaustion; his clawing hand missed the wrist, nearly toppling him instead.

Cold flashed in the elder’s eyes; he swung the hefty staff two-handed, whistling wind to Arendel’s helm!

Clang—!

A muffled blast rocked the visor.

Arendel’s world blackened; pure instinct drove him crashing forward, weight alone slamming into the elder’s embrace.

The tumble was crude, no finesse—pure mass toppling the elf; they rolled in the mire, Arendel atop, elbow gouging the neck while the other pinned the rising staff.

Well then . . .

let’s survey the scene: the bridgehead a reeking abattoir, gore-slick earth splashed viscous; elf and man lay tangled in death, snapped arms and splintered boards strewn wide.

The rearward shieldmen, beholding, surged with fervor, bellowing skyward as they advanced shields like a tide.

The elves, already scattered and outnumbered, crumbled utterly under lance and foot’s twin hammer; though a few peerless warriors held grim, their fighting retreat heralded rout imminent—

As Kritiya drew near, skirts hemmed in crimson, stepping into this charnel yard, through her eyes, what I beheld . . .was such a sight.