Chapter 3.2
The Fields of the East
The elf crawled down from the treetop, his long claw like fingers allowed him to shift his tiny frame down with great skill. His elongated skull scarcely cleared the top of his back as he looked down. His stocky, bony frame had very little weight. All of these factors allowed life within the forest to be successful. As he crawled onto the ground he rose to full height, barely the shoulder height of a dwarf. He checked his gear, a small leather tunic made from a gazelle in some foreign land, a wooden shortsword, a small buckler made from elm strapped to his back. He was only a scout; his equipment was designed to be light and easily abandoned.
He moved quickly across the ground, his long arms working together with his legs to propel him much like an ape. As he passed a small banner into the main camp, he paused to salute the guards. There were cultural traits from the dwarfs that they had picked up as they traded. The guards waved him through.
The camp was like most elven camps in that it was based around the small, underground command burrow. From this command burrow paths led to the defensive points facing out toward the plains to the the far east. These were hastily constructed out of empty crates and bins, their design wasn’t for longevity but rather of rapid abandonment. Directly opposite the command bunker was the supply station, small bands of elves were helping themselves to the collected armor and weapons. The bountiful supply was greatly welcomed. Around the flanks of the camp and rear edge were small banners, these were manned by elven guards ensuring the general security and obedience within camp. Overall it was designed to be of little value for an advancing army and easily abandoned by the elves at any given moment.
A chunk of wood composed the door to the commander’s burrow. The elf opened the door, its hinge was merely rope tied to a branch. The small burrow was dank and cramped; they had only just set up camp. A small alcove on the elf’s right contained a crate with another elf frantically writing correspondence to any and all. The small elf pushed deeper, his keen natural night vision eliminating any need for lights. The small burrow opened out into a cavern of sorts. Still small by dwarf standards, the cavern was tall enough to allow the elf to stand and move freely. The centre was occupied by a table with several crates marked with a variety of trade markings lining the room. The commander’s guard were equipping themselves with scraps of wooden armor; small chunks of timber lashed together with bits of rope reed several layers thick. The dwarfs called it chain mail for lack of a better word. The recent rise of society amongst the relatively primitive elves had not yet bestowed metal working or other, more sophisticated techniques. The preference towards bows and arrows had been useful for hunting in the era where tribes would merely war amongst themselves, now that the warlord Khanil had united the tribes, the desperate need for better arms and armor was apparent. They had become shrewd negotiators and traders with an eye for the future. Brokering deals to keep the trees in other territories alive for use in what Khanil called “the great purge”. For now however, they relied on bought metals from the dwarves and scrapping techniques from the goblins.
The commander stood over a large stone, carved on its surface was a to-scale representation of the surrounding geography. It had cost the commander a pittance to have it made by a passing dwarven stone crafter. He pointed to several points of the map whilst chittering to the small war-band leaders nearby. Across his body were hanging bones, his helmet was made from a badger’s skull, a necklace fron the finger bones of dwarves. The shrunken head of a goblin hero sat on a rope reed belt at his waist. His loin cloth was a stretched piece of reptile leather from a forgotten beast. Overall he had managed hundreds of kills. His personal trophy however was an adamantine knife stolen from a trade convoy from a fortress called CryptIron. The knife was different to the standard elven knife. It was a straight blade with a simple handle. Most elven blades featured spines the thickness of herringbone that are designed to break off inside the belly of an enemy as the blade was withdrawn. It was a technique used to hunt boar, after stabbing it once with a knife and scuttling up a tree, all an elf needed to do was track the boar; the spines shifting and moving with the boar, causing massive amounts of internal damage.
The elf stopped and saluted the commander. The commander grunted and waited for the initial report from the scout.
“Humans, from the north. They’re here!”
His voice was low for an elf, the language was poorly suited for one of the commanders size, as a result he slurred words and mangled the pronunciation of others.
“Were the forward scouts correct? Did they bring the abomination?”
”There was a brass beetle, it covered the horizon. You could barely see it through the cloud.”
“And what of the humans strength? How any are they?”
”Thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands. I don’t know, there were long skirmish lines, men clad in long coats with crow faces. Everything else was within the cloud.”
“The crow faces are plague helmets. They stop the men from dying. Them and the metal lungs.”
“What should we do? What would you like me to do?”
“Take your war-band and prepare to draw them into the forest, we would be beaten out on the plains. They will not survive.”
“And the beetle? What about it?”
“It will not be able to advance. We will be safe.”
”The cloud?”
”I have yet to see proof that it is dangerous to us.”
”I shall do as you request.”
“Good, see to it that you aim for the head. I want one of their lungs as a trophy.”
”It shall be done”
The commander waved off the small elf. He lacked a name, any name. The elves had little use for names. Their culture was based around small tribes, everybody knew each other on sight, individual markings were burnt and scarred across the face at birth. The elf’s own markings were that of a short cross. He moved back through the tunnel and back up to the surface. Above ground there was plenty of movement as elves grabbed and shifted crates into covered positions, mounted crossbows adorned these defensive positions. In other areas, the elves quickly dug up lengths of the moss ground and then lashed it to themselves and others. They would move back into the forest and prepare a second line of defense.
Short-cross moved back past the banner, the guard didn’t notice him. He was too busy organizing his war-band to assist in building the defenses. Short-cross scurried back up into the tree and pointed toward the others keeping watch. They followed after him silently. Short-cross moved out of the edge of the forest, the open rolling fields allowed an excellent line for sight for miles. Together the war-band of five moved toward a thick patch of bramble. The long thick tendrils of the scrub would cover the three armed with bows and arrows as they fired upon one of the skirmish lines and drew back into the woods. The idea was to draw a group past, then the two armed with knives would strike at the rear and move past them again, increasing the pace at which they smashed into the first defensive line. From there the lines would collapse in on each other, sacrificing ground for defensive capacity. The elves knew exactly what they were supposed to do. It was something they had been doing all their lives, the creatures that were frequently hunted were much more powerful then they were.
As they approached the line Small-Cross got a closer look at one of the humans. Their tall thin frames were draped in a long matte black coat; the collar was closed and sat just under the jaw line. Each one wore a blood red leather plague mask, all of them looking like ravens. Two wide glass circles were housed in brass casing as the eyepieces allowing them vision. A leather harness sat around their chest, strapped to it was a pair of cylinders. A hose ran from this to a long metal pipe with two handles. A bandolier of iron spikes was draped over each of the men. They marched across the fields slowly, just slightly behind an unarmed banner carrier. The banner carrier used his harness as a mount for the banner, it’s red and black cloth waved just behind his head. In his right hand was a brass baton directing the movements of the skirmishing line. Behind all of them sat a grey-green cloud. It rolled across the field; occasionally small tendrils reached out from this cloud and dispersed.
Small-cross took his position inside the bramble and waited silently with the rest. He was excited to be defending the great forest. Never had the forest fallen, its great length spanning back across a quarter of the continent. Inside the centre sat a small mountain, carved out from the inside by an old dwarven contingent. This was the centre of the new government, it having been taken by the warlord Khanil, now they hoped to defend it as one people against the threat of the humans from the north. Their reliance on steam, pressure and gas was abhorrent to a group that had never managed to smelt iron. The skirmish line grew closer. Small-cross noticed an eerie silence. None of the humans spoke. Only the loud noise of Tal Tanoth the forgotten beast’s footsteps could be heard from miles away.
He briefly considered Tal Tanoth, the humans had captured it and had manipulated the great beast to serve their will. They had erected a mobile command camp upon its back and produced the pressurized cylinders of the gas they so loved. Small-cross wasn’t sure what the weapons were capable of. He was curious to see them in action.
The skirmish line ahead closed its distance, the dark figures moving within range of the arrows of his ambush. He nodded to the elves next to him and they selected a target and opened fire. The arrows sailed out from the brambles and into a man, he took two steps before falling to his knees and collapsing. The line stopped dead without a word, they waited for commands. Small-Cross smiled, he could get a second volley in before the archers had to retreat.
The banner carrier watched the bramble bush for a moment before bringing his baton down in line. The men around him raised their weapons and opened fire. With a crack each fired in unison at the bush, iron spikes drove their way through, tearing plant life and forcing a full retreat. The elves scrambled back, ignoring their plan. Small-cross scampered across the ground, his war-band inline beside him. Another crack and a whoosh of air as the iron spikes sailed over them, one collided with the elf running next to Small-cross, the power of the shot sending his small body tumbling. Small-cross ignored him. As he pounded his way back toward the forest he couldn’t think. Terror had paralyzed his mind, taking control.
Another volley sailed past them, this one was more accurate than the last. Striking down a pair of the elves and tearing off the thin leg of a third. Screams of pain sailed across the killing field as the skirmish line moved forward again, the gas from Tal Tanoth trailing from their weapons. The small cloud drifted with the men as they moved closer to the edge of the forest. Small-cross looked back in time to see them pass the brambles, the cloud hitting his fallen comrade. The one legged elf gasped for breath, his flesh necrotizing and melting off the bone. The small feeble creature wretched and vomited large chunks of his lungs before expiring.
Small-cross passed through the edges of the forest. Iron spikes followed him, crashing and tearing chunks of wood from the trees around him. His mind had handed control over to terror, in this terror he wanted to hide. He scrambled past the encampment, elves prepared themselves for combat. Some had buried themselves just below the surface. Others manned the crossbows not mounted to solid cover, more still sat in the trees with bows and arrows.
The human wave of skirmishers moved forward. Their speed was constant, reloading as they advanced forward. Volley after volley crashed through the trees in front. As they pushed closer and closer into the forest they risked running into the encampment. The elves prepared themselves as Small-cross flittered past. The men crashed through into the range of the mounted crossbows. Several of them fell but more took their places. In the shadows of the forest these men loomed great, their numbers were uncountable in the heat of battle. Very quickly order was lost amongst the elves as the men raised their weapons and fired, demolishing the defensive positions and triggering the retreat of the others. They moved with fear as the cloud caused by the fired shots drifted down into the command burrow. The commander hurled himself through the light wood of the door, the flesh on his long skull had begun to melt. In a moment he lept to strike down one of the men but was cut down with another volley.
The men moved forth over the meager defenses. Only a small number had fallen to the elven bolts and arrows. Those elves armed with melee weapons couldn’t close in without falling prey to the gas. Each man was un-emotional and perfectly composed with the rest of the skirmish line, the psychological effect of this dark wall of death was extreme amongst the fleeing elves. Those that were buried died were they lay, small pools of blood and chunks of frothed forth from the mossy patches on the ground, some tried to drag themselves away to no avail.
The elves fell into disarray as they retreated. Small-cross had hidden himself away in a dead hollow log, unaware that the rolling gas from each fired shot was approached. The men marched forward with no concern for their fallen. They seemed almost unaware of the growing death toll that their mere presence was creating. Their fired shots were striking down and pinning the elves to trees and tearing the thin bony limbs off their bodies.
The cloud moved inexorably closer. The stench filled the small whimpering elf’s nostrils before he felt his flesh begin to burn. He heaved and vomited, his last breath upon this earth was that of pain. Marching soldiers advanced forward, firing blindly into the scrub. In the distance the great beetle Tal Tanoth moved indefatigably closer to the dwarven mountainhome. The human army never flinched, they never paused. Death and destruction is what they planned to bring. The expansion of the human empire into the lands of the lesser species had begun.
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Topic: CryptIron (Read 8317 times)