As silent as ghosts, the Elven archers raced through the trees, nothing more than shadows to all but the keenest of eyes. Silver moonlight filtered down through the tall firs as the Elves leapt fallen logs and ducked beneath low branches, running with the speed and focus of a wolf pack closing in on the kill. Not even a broken blade of grass marked their passing.
An owl hooted to the north, and Kaeloth dropped to one knee, instantly motionless. The Elven warriors running behind him froze, dropping low, and were at once all but invisible, blending into the undergrowth. Kaeloth cocked his head to one side, listening intently. A second cry sounded, this time coming from the south, and lifting one hand to his mouth, he responded in kind, mimicking the sound of the night-owl perfectly. Further off, other cries echoed his own.
Kaeloth was up and moving once more a heartbeat later, running swiftly. A dozen other warbands were closing in upon the enemy, surrounding them completely. The fools would come to regret having defiled these sacred lands.
The wind changed abruptly, bringing with it the enemy’s scent, a pungent, animalistic stink that made Kaeloth curl his nose in disgust. From further off he could smell fire, and hatred stirred in his heart at the thought of the barbarous creatures burning the sacred trees.
They covered the final miles in minutes, closing in on their prey relentlessly, only slowing their progress as they drew near the edge of the glade. Crouched low, Kaeloth and his warrior kinsmen ghosted forward, waiting for the signal. Their elongated eyes glinted like those of cats in the moonlight. Kaeloth’s nightvision was as keen as any forest creatures, and his hatred burnt fiercely in his heart as stared out across the open glade at the enemy army. Their number was beyond counting, yet he felt no fear. A moment later and thick cloud obscured the silver full moon, the darkness deepening. In response, a wolf howled, and the Elves launched their attack.
Darting forward, their feet barely touching the ground, Kaeleth and his kinsmen closed in upon the foe. Two hundred paces from the enemy they came to a halt, unslinging their shields and ramming them point-first into the ground. In an instant, bows were in hand and arrows drawn from quivers built into the inside of shields. Nocking an arrow to the string and drawing smoothly, Kaeloth let out a slow breath and picked his target. As one, he and his kin loosed, and a hundred arrows sliced up into the air. Before they had even reached the top of their trajectory a second wave was launched. A third flight of arrows arced up into the air just as the first struck home. Scores of other archer warbands had emerged from the forests all around, surrounding the enemy completely, and as they first arrows struck, panic erupted in the enemy camp.
Brutish howls and bestial roars of pain and shock rose to the heavens. Thousands died in those first, chaotic seconds. Without pause, Kaeleth drew and fired, the movement as smooth and natural to the veteran warrior as breathing. Every arrow loosed found its mark, slicing through the air with unerring accuracy, thudding into barrelled chests and green-skinned necks.
A horn sounded, the sound crisp and clear, and thousands of Elven spearmen emerged from the forest, marching swiftly. At their head was none other than the Bladedancer himself, and a cold smile appeared upon Kaeleth’s face.
‘Come, my brothers,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Let us finish these vermin.’
By dawn, not a single Orc would be left alive.