Mage Song, by Martin Penneck

3870.CE

The bows sang once more, and scores of arrows arced through the air before burying themselves into the mass of greenskins desperately trying to flee back up and away from the bottom of the chine where the archers had established their shooting line. Injured bodies twitched where the arrows had caused serious but not yet fatal wounds, and the ground grew slick as their lifeblood leeched from their bodies, slowly dulling their cries of pain and fear. 

 "Send some forward to finish them off. They'll be wailing for hours if we don't, and I need my sleep undisturbed so I can walk the paths with our Mage, and find where their army is lurking." 

Three gaunt archers had their shoulders tapped by the Sergeant that Broadleaf had just spoken to. They unsheathed their longswords and jogged over to the piles of bodies, turning goblins over and occasionally stab downwards. Gradually, the site of the skirmish grew quieter and Broadleaf wandered over to their baggage train. 

"We'll post sentries for the night and camp here,” he announced. “If there're any further probing attacks, we'll have enough warning to repel them. I intend to ask our Mage where the main body of the greenskin force lies, and their remaining numbers. Tomorrow we will either attack and destroy them head on, or, if their numbers are great, lure them into an ambush and destroy them that way." 

Several elves started unloading tents from the baggage beasts, whilst others carefully fanned out and made their way up along the chine and out of sight. Broadleaf sighed, took a swig from his water bottle, and chewed on some herbs from a pouch on his belt. As soon as his tent was pitched he would retire and commune with the Mage. 

He needed to know where the goblin army was encamped, and just how many there truly were. Previously, the Mage had implied the invaders were few. Their incursion into the eastern fringes of his lord’s realm was annoying, but not on the scale of many that had come before. Hence, he had only been given a few Troops of Silverbreeze, archers and spears, and indeed, the goblins’ headlong charge tactics so far meant that even these few soldiers had proved more than enough.  

Broadleaf glanced back to see if his tent was now ready. Then he spun, as cries of warning echoed from all around.  

 "To me!" he bellowed. 

The greenskin retreat had clearly been a temporary regrouping. 

From the ridge above rushed two score goblins, coming pell-mell, as before, straight towards the elven line hastily forming up in front of their tents. Their elegant recurved bows shot into the raggedly arrayed goblins, and once again large numbers were downed. 

But something was different this time, and it worried Broadfleaf. The remnants of the goblins, instead of fleeing as they had done the several times before they had tried to break through, kept rushing forwards. Looks of fear, even terror, etched their faces, weapons gripped knuckle-white in small hands. Broadleaf slashed the neck of one goblin as it got within range, dropping it instantly. His force was making short work of the last of the greeskins, yet he could still hear warning cries from his scouts. 

Then, bouncing down the sides of the slope, from boulder to boulder, they came. 

Broadleaf's eyes widened. Such agility. Such power. Large cats – larger than the panthers of the Basilean Holy Sisters – charged towards the elves, their heavy faces framed by long, rust-coloured hair like beards. Broadleaf’s archers loosed desperately, but unlike the goblins, these beasts wore brightly coloured cloth armour, and even where a bodkin struck unarmoured muscle, it did nothing to slow them. 

The shields of his Tallspears snapped together in a shieldwall, spears lowered to form a forest of wicked blades. The cats were undeterred. They leapt over the hedge of points or batted them aside with velvety, clawed paws, splintering stout spears like matchwood. In moments, they were among the elves, mouths wide, fangs biting down on necks before tossing bodies aside and bounding to the next target. 

Broadleaf fell back. The cats' charge having broken the elven force. If he could get to his horse he might yet escape. What foe was this he faced, and why had the Mage not warned him of its presence? Glancing back he was horrified to see limp forms carried in the mouths of the cats, and two or three of them surrounding the last stand of elven spears, batting playfully at the terrified warriors. 

Then he heard the sound of marching feet. 

Ducking behind a fold in the ground, he saw a vast phalanx marching impeccably towards him. Looking further back, he could see no end to them. More of the terrifying cats fringed the flanks, this time bearing riders, similarly armoured to their mounts. A multitude of banners fluttered across the serried ranks – strange writing and a claw symbol displayed upon them. 

Broadleaf cursed. He had asked the Mage repeatedly about the strength and composition of the invasion, and had been assured it was a minor goblin raid. As he stared at the mass of soldiers, one of the officers spotted him – and Broadleaf gasped. 

Beneath the ornate helmet, as with all the force, he saw canine features. The officer’s lips curled into a slight smile, revealing sharp incisors. Broadleaf staggered upright. 

Why had the Mage not been able to see this coming? Why no warning? 

He scrambled to get away. He had to reach his lord’s castle. 

Something new had arrived on the plains of Estacarr. 

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