View source for BW29 - Dafydd

The relentless force ensured they gave ground, steadily at first, down the gently undulating slope.  The clash of lines in the afternoon had been preceded by withering bow fire on both sides; whilst the daikyo proved superior to the men’s bows in range, accuracy and penetration, they were no match to those the elves employed so well.  Yet the manoeuvre of both sides, early on, kept losses from being overwhelming.  Cavalry charge had be met with bow and pole arm, outflanking manoeuvres had been blocked or confronted, feints and deceptions were quickly recognised. A stalemate had developed.  Now, as the watery sun peaked a little above the forested southern horizon, in Amorsland’s late winter, the Men of Farass withdrew cautiously before setting to receive yet another infantry charge.  The elves rode behind their allies and, while conserving arrows, they picked out the enemy leadership reckless enough to show a weak chink in an otherwise armoured carapace. Hugely outnumbered, men and elves fought on. 

“Aras!  More come from the East,” a heavily armoured man screamed as he blocked a razor sharp katana aimed at his head.  Pushing the blade back with a spiked shield, he drove a wickedly barbed long sword into the midriff of his assailant and cried, “strength here now!”

“Malenwe waits there.  Do not fear, that way is barred!” came the reply from Aras - a huge man in the centre of the square – the only man left atop a warhorse at the front line.  “She predicted their march along the valley; hold the line!” 

The order had an immediate effect: the line strengthened and the latest samurai charge broke against it.  The stalemate continued and, whilst there was death on both sides, the Orientals (with more men to lose) suffered heavier losses.  Despite the odds and the slow withdrawal, the men and elves held.

“Look there!” Aras shouted above the noise of battle, indicating to the east with his outstretched sword arm (that had completed a full arc, severing the head from the shoulders of a bushido warrior stupid enough to come within range).  

His lieutenant fended off a blow and bought enough time to steel another glance to the right flank.  There, within bow range, came charging several hundred oriental warriors in full O-Yori mounted on similarly formidably armoured warhorse. Those that witnessed the dreadful sight began to quake, a few faltered and were cut down, others resigned themselves to death where they stood.  Yet, even as they prepared for the new onslaught, the Men of Farass saw Malenwe’s banner crest the rise behind and up slope from the emerging enemy ranks.  She was alone, her banner planted by her side and her bow bent like some vision of Freya herself. On release of her bowstring her flaming arrow signalled hundreds more like it to take flight, arcing high over her head and dropping with lethal precision into the ranks of cavalry below.  With little concern for the tightly woven metal strips of armour, the arrow heads plunged into flesh – man and horse – killing and maiming vast swathes of the enemy caught totally by surprise.

This time it was the mass of Orientals who faltered. Trapped between the Men of Farass at the front and a resurgent elven force behind and to their flank they briefly yielded.  Confusion rather than fear took hold.  

“Up! Up!” screamed Aras, spurring his horse forward into the enemy line, carving great arcs with his sword, at the end of which were the heads of his enemy.  Horns blasted and the Samurai gave ground; facing their foe it was the Orientals’ turn to fight a rear-guard action, giving ground, uphill.  Expecting more arrows to fall on them from behind, and with no reserve, Malor’s leaders saw sense in withdrawing to fight another day, rather than risk slaughter.  Whilst highly disciplined, the samurai were unaccustomed to retreat and many sought death over failure. 

For their part, the Men of Farass and Malenwe’s elves were fatigued.  Having fled south for days, with little provision, and having fought a retreat from dawn, arms and legs were sapped and minds dulled; however, they had chosen the battlefield well.  Malenwe positioned her troops with expertise, showing enough with the line of men not to rouse suspicion but keeping a reserve to guard the right flank, where the land was well disposed to a cavalry manoeuvre.  The mix of horse and infantry, men and elves, constantly frustrated the Orientals’ at each move and counter move.  This was not meant to be the definitive battle that would rid Amorsland of Malor’s army; it was a battle for survival.  Malenwe and Aras recognised that they had won the first encounter of what was likely to become a protracted war.  Fighting, hand-to-hand, was not the answer for they were heavily outnumbered.  Even if they killed three for the loss of one, they would lose rapidly.  No, there had to be a better way.

“Withdraw!  Do not give chase!  Back, Back!”  Aras screamed riding the length of the line, “We have proven that we are not to be trifled with, but this is not the time to complete the task.”

Horns were sounded on both sides, commanding the respective withdrawals.  It was not long before Malenwe’s elves had scrambled down the slope, in an effort not to be isolated, and grouped around the right flank, massing in case of a re-attack that never came. 

“Hale, my Lady and well met! Your plan worked well this time, though I fear we will not be so fortunate in future contacts.”

“You are right, Aras, and your men fought well here to hold the centre.  They are exhausted and we must find shelter before the enemy re-group.”

“Indeed, my Lady, perhaps we could make the forest before dawn?”

“Perhaps, though all are weary and have little left to eat.” Then whispering under her breath and mostly to herself Malenwe utters, “I pray my Lady will provide.” 

Aras recognises her doubt, “We will manage, the Gods willing!”  He turns to his men, “Come! Come this way; right flank fall back!” he shouts, Centre hold and watch the enemy.  Left flank fall back!” 

With the orders given the watching retreat lasted many hours, but in that time Dafydd witnessed the power of the Gods.  First he saw an image of Freya, a Goddess he recognised as Milai’s former deity, in the garb of a huntress; she left great haunches of venison, rabbits and birds by the dozen and flagons of water. The miracles were stumbled upon in the dark by unknowing, grateful recipients.  Next, some hours later when the night was at its darkest, he saw a nymph – a semi-clad, beautiful female - lit by the pale glow of the sickle moon. The nymph dropped large urns close to the path along which the combined forces of men and elves marched.  Each was the size of half a man in both height and girth.  Each contained some potent rejuvenating fluid, the effect of which was immediate.  All who partook seemed reinvigorated and content to press on throughout the night to reach the forest.  Even those with wounds, serious enough for them to have to ride or be carried by their companions, found their injuries healed and strength restored.  Morale was again high and the elves broke into song – not a lament of those that had passed, but one of victory and success in endeavours yet to come.