Chapter 46: Nice to meet you. I’m Alan.

Patrick ordered the torches lit. Night had fallen on Hahl. The apprehension in the room tripled, and understandably so. For one, sunrise was less than eight hours away, and for two, the Kingdom forces had no plan of action thanks to the puzzling behavior of Alan Marshall.

The middle aged commander grew animated over the last few minutes. There was an ever-present energy to him now, a confidence almost never seen from the man. It was then, Patrick realized, that Alan Marshall became a different being when he planned for war. He glowed with the light of a man doing the one thing in the world he was good at.

At least I hope he is, Patrick thought. If not, we’ll have died for nothing.

Patrick wanted to strangle the man. Who did he think he was, discarding hours of precious work? It would be one thing if he insisted on drawing a new plan, but at the very least kept Patrick’s for backup. But no, he’d shredded their only plan of action with an army practically at their doorsteps. It was beyond infuriating.

Seehara was the only one present—aside from Saerina—that didn’t seem to be disturbed in the slightest. The old treasurer sat patiently, jotting down costs, estimations, and loans required, all with a hand that shook from age rather than terror. commander Duuhard, on the other hand, trembled, wearing a sickly expression of worry.

“How long are you going to make us wait?” Duuhard asked. “Gods, man, there’s little time.”

Alan was pacing back and forth with a delighted grin on his face. He swung his left finger in the air like a music composer. He bounced off the heels of his feet as he turned around and paced in the other direction.

Patrick didn’t disturb him. He was the only chance they had now. That is, if he wasn’t insane, or stricken with some other mental illness. It had been years since Patrick had last seen the man command. Was he always like this? Patrick struggled to remember, it had been so long ago.

“Yes,” Alan muttered. “Yes, yes.”

Commander Duuhard sighed. “He’s been repeating himself for an hour now. Perhaps we should draw a new set of plans and have the man hung?”

Patrick wanted to agree with the commander, but shook his head thinking better of it. “Just let him be. My father once told me he has no equal. I’ll have to bet my life that my father was an honest man.”

“Or not a boastful one,” Saerith added. Ten of the lower sergeants present gasped at the prince’s lack of respect and tone. It was a brazen statement to make from one prince to another, and of course, the men weren’t yet aware of princes' growing disregard for formality.

By the time Alan stopped pacing, full dark had settled upon Hahl, thick clouds obscuring the moonlight. Patrick poured himself another goblet of water and prayed to Helena.

Please, he thought. Bless us with safety and victory.

The room quieted when Alan spoke. “Arrogant,” he said. “Very, very arrogant.”

“Arrogant?” Duuhard asked. “Who, or what, is arrogant?”

Alan licked his lips. “Why, the enemy army of course, what else? Fifteen thousand men. That’s the number that march on Hahl. Naughty, naughty, naughty!”

Patrick leaned forward, pushing aside his goblet of water and folding his hands on the table. “Why are they arrogant, Alan?”

“Because, this is but a fraction of their army, why attack with so few?”

“It’s a common tactic to—”

“Common tactic my arse!” Alan cut him off. “These men mean business. They’re not here to steal or ask for our surrender, or even to conquer and claim us. They want us dead. So, why not march through us with the full weight of their combined might? Two reasons and two reasons alone. One, they want to test us. Two, they want to test themselves. They’re treating us as an experiment, plain and simple.”

Seehara, keeping her eyes focused on the documents below her fingers, spoke without turning her head. “Makes sense, dear. But what does that mean for us?”

Patrick didn’t think it was possible, but somehow Alan’s grin widened. “It means, my love, we need to show them something.”

Patrick inhaled, calming himself. “Please do not speak so cryptically, Alan. What is it we need to show them?”

“Something they know, but don’t realize. Something they understand, but deny. We need to show these men that they can die.”

“Die?”

“Yes, die. We need to show that we can, and will, kill them.”

Patrick sat up straighter, considering commander Marshall’s words. “Isn’t that obvious? Tomorrow, when they march on us, we’ll be showing them plenty of that, I’m sure.”

Alan shook his head. “No, not tomorrow.”

“When, then?”

“Tonight.”

Silence fell upon the room, but only for a moment. The door to the war-room opened, admitting a young runner with a bag around his shoulder. “Night check is clear, sir.”

Patrick nodded. “Good job, check again. I want scouts reporting in every fifteen minutes.”

It was rare for enemies to attack at night. When attacking something one could not see, accidents were commonplace. Still, in the event the approaching army was crazy enough—and Patrick didn’t doubt they were—it wouldn’t be unheard of for them to risk it, and in such a case, Patrick wanted to be ready for it.

The moment the runner departed from the room, the silence resumed. What more could be expected after such ominous words? Alan stood at attention, awaiting any questions. Patrick was the first to address him. “Why would we attack them first? They outnumber us two to one.”

“I agree,” Duuhard said. “I do not know what has happened to you during your stay in Steadrow-Pillar, Alan, but you are quite mad if you think to send our forces into the open against them.”

“No,” Alan said. “Not your forces. His.” He pointed to Saerith.

Prince Saerith, who at the time observed Alan with what appeared to be detached fascination, removed his hands from under his chin and sat up straighter. “Excuse me?”

“The Elves,” Alan continued. “You’ve brought, what, a thousand give or take, yes? I want you to use them tonight, but not all of them. Two hundred should be enough. I want you to hit them while they sleep. Elves are fast, graceful, and capable of dealing death, moving swiftly. Harass them, make them loathe to again close their eyes…demoralize them for me. This is what I want.”

Patrick couldn’t control his burning outrage. He slammed his hands against the table and stood up from his seat. “Are you mad? You speak of using guerilla tactics against an organized enemy. That is among the most foolish—”

“Quiet!” Alan shouted. “These are Elves we’re speaking about, boy.”

“Do not call me a boy, Alan. I am your prince.” Patrick fingered the sword resting in its sheath by his side. Never had he so wanted to run a man through.

Alan showed no indication he was remorseful for his blatant disrespect. If anything, he seemed amused by it. He maintained his grin, all the while casually stretching his arms. “You do not understand the enemy’s mindset. When we show them they can die, it will hurt their morale, and it will place fear in their hearts even before the battle has begun.”

“And you do?” Saerina asked. She too had stood to her feet, and Patrick was grateful to have the Elven princess taking his side in matters. No one, surely not even Alan Marshall, would argue with her logic. When the woman spoke, opinion was turned into fact, and fact was turned into reality.

“I’ve had a look at this man,” Saerina said. “Though it was from the sky, I saw all I had to see. With just one look I knew—this man, though sadistic and pig-hearted, is also shrewd, and cunning. He won’t be as defenseless as you seem to think. No, we will not go through with this.”

Alan nodded twice, slowly, before stepping abruptly forward and narrowing his eyes on Saerina. “Woman, sit down and shut up. Your opinion is no longer required, thank you.”

Saerina met him head-on, grabbing him by the shirt and raising her dagger to his throat. “You…dare!”

Once again Patrick and Saerith had to separate the two. Patrick grabbed Alan, while Saerith grabbed his sister’s shoulders and tugged her backwards. Saerina breathed with a rapid, hissing grunt, while Alan tilted back his head and barked a laugh. “Feisty one, isn’t she?”

Patrick wanted to cry in front of his own men. How could things be falling apart this easily? Perhaps Alan Marshall should be removed and hung after all?

“Of all living mortals, you alone, make me wish to inflict murder!” Saerina spat. “Alan…Alan bloody Marshall!” She spoke the name like it was poison on her tongue.

“And you alone, of all living women, make me want to drink more than I normally do. I think you need a spanking. Bend over, princess, why don’t I—”

“ENOUGH!” All turned to see the kindly old treasurer spring from her seat, sweat dripping down her silver hair and landing onto her white-knitted sweater. “Children,” she said. “And yes, compared to me, that is what all of you are—will you please stop fighting? Yes? Thank you.” She took a slow breath before sitting down and returning to her reports.

Saerina pushed her brother off of her and turned to again face Alan. “When I know something, I know it. It is not wise to attack this man, especially not with two hundred men against fifteen thousand. I told you I’ve seen this man’s face. I know he’ll have prepared for such an attack.”

Alan slapped himself on the forehead. “Of course he’s prepared for such an attack! He’s at the very least a competent commander.”

“Then why do you insist we waste our resources, the lives of my people, in such a fruitless display of aggression?”

Patrick observed the exchange in silence, taking in the arguments of both sides. In the end, the decision was his, and he didn’t care how adamant commander Marshall was. This was his Kingdom, and this was his battle.

Alan paced the room while he spoke, rubbing his chin with his left thumb and forefinger. “What their commander expects is not the same as what his men do. These men, as I have said, know that they can die, but do they believe it? Does anyone expect to die? I’ve no doubt their commander has taken several precautions against the unexpected event of a preemptive assault. But his men, they don’t believe in their hearts it will happen, and how could they? They feel powerful, marching across the land with an unstoppable army. No, when the Elves hit them they will be rattled, they will be shown fear. This is…H-hey! You five, why are you writing this down?”

Alan waved a hand at four sergeants, and commander Duuhard. They looked at him in confusion, two with their mouths held open, frozen in their attempts at speech. “Well, if this ends up being a strategy,” Duuhard said, “then naturally it needs to be put into our new plan of action. Of course, it still needs to be approved by the prince, but all methods of action must be recorded. Such is how we create our battle plan. You, of all people, should know this, Alan.”

Alan moaned, grabbing the sides of his head. He leapt at the papers, and again Patrick was too slow to stop him. The man literally dove at the table, sliding across it on his stomach. The rest of the men were too shocked to stop him as well. Before anyone could shout a word in protest, Alan was back on his feet, jumping off the other end of table. He bolted to the fireplace and tossed the stack of papers into the fire.

“Alan!” Patrick shouted.

“You fool!” Saerina added.

Patrick advanced on him—and stopped. When Alan turned around, his eyes had again changed. Now they were filled with even more determination, even more confidence. Patrick was frozen in awe. “W-Why did you do it this time?” he whispered. “These were your plans the men were writing down.”

“Because,” Alan said. “In war, plans change. Nothing is certain, nothing should be written in stone.” His usual mirth was gone as he spoke, replaced by a hard, gruff stoicism. “Patrick, I know you want to do what’s right. I know it! But understand this, and understand this well. I am Alan Marshall, the drunk, the fool, and several times in my life the beggar. But I am also Alan Marshall, the single greatest tactician this kingdom has ever known. Before we fight in the morning, I must know my enemy.”

Alan tilted his head, taking in every man present. “This is what I am—this is what I do, and I don’t care how intuitive the princess is, or what magic spells she knows. War is my art, my passion, my life. You want to win? Do you want to save your kingdom? Obey me, then. Obey me, and you just might. I must come to know this man that commands them. I must send him a message.”

Patrick forced saliva into his mouth. His stomach churned while he listened to the man’s words. The more he spoke about war, the more he changed, the livelier, more real, and bolder he became.

Was this what the princess saw in him? Patrick wondered.

“What message would that be?”

Alan grinned. “That he isn’t dealing with you, my prince. He isn’t dealing with any of you. He’ll know he’s dealing with the one man who’ll have his head on a pike. But for that I need to know him. I need to see how he reacts. This game is only half won with force. The other half is in here.” Alan poked himself in the head. “Patrick, quit undermining me and let me do the only thing in life I ever been good at.”

Patrick rubbed his eyes. Could he really allow this man control of everything? It wasn’t fair, having to make these decisions. Ultimately, whatever happened, whoever commanded, history would place all blame or praise on Patrick. If he allowed Alan to control his army and the man failed, Patrick would be forever known as the prince who destroyed his nation.

No, Patrick thought. There won’t be a history. Not for us, anyway.

“Do it,” Patrick said. “Do what you need.”

Alan stepped away from the fireplace and stared across the room at Saerith. “And you?”

Saerith shrugged. “Just tell me what you want my Elves to do.”

“I want them to say hi,” Alan said. “It’s time this ‘commander’ knew who he was dealing with.”

******

“Move it!” Calen ordered. “When we get there, I don’t want a single one of you making any sound. Use the night as your cover, and kill without regard. Understood?”

The men shouted their understanding down the line. Calen beamed his pride at the men accompanying him, men who only days prior looked upon him with disgust. The Naris clan looked down on weakness, more than any other trait, and after Sehn had humiliated him, Calen feared he’d never again regain his honor. But now, as men he knew as boys navigated the shadows alongside him, Calen spotted the look of trust in their eyes. This was his chance to prove his worth. This was his chance to again be respected in the Naris clan.

The valley of Hahl was beautiful, even in the complete darkness of night. It was beauty neither seen nor heard, but rather smelled and tasted. The flowers tickled his nose with their soothing aromas, while the smell of fresh grass and hot springs wafted into the air.

The order had come only two hours prior before, and Calen wasted no time questioning it. He was to take two hundred of his men on a trip with one sole purpose—to kill, and kill, and kill. And when no more killing could be done, they were to retreat while dealing death to all those who pursued. And when those who pursued learned they could not outrun his Elves, he was to again turn and kill.

“Attrition,” Calen whispered. “A battle of attrition.”

A young Human soldier approached him from the side. He looked odd in the dark green Elven garb, but for their purpose, heavy armor would be a waste. They needed to be fast, efficient, and able to move unhindered.

“Why did you choose to come?” Calen asked. “This was meant to be for Elves alone. Besides, don’t you and the other Human have a battalion of your own to lead?”

“We will,” Daniel said. “Lira and I are determined to survive this.”

“And if we don’t,” Lira said. “Well, there are plenty of other dashing young men to lead our forces.”

Daniel laughed and kissed her on the cheek. Calen couldn’t help but smile at the two Humans in Elven light armor. His men accepted the two Humans, honored to share in the Humans’ willingness to die with them.

“Still, wish I could use a sword,” Daniel said. “A dagger and a bow—will this really be enough?”

Calen opened his mouth to respond, but the woman, Lira, was quicker. “It better be,” she said. “Because a sword will only slow us down. If you’re feeling frightened, my sexy Daniel, don’t be afraid to turn tail and—”

“Hah! As Sehn would say. The Great Daniel will be having none of that!”

“I really must meet this Elf you won’t shut up about.”

Calen laughed. “I’m not sure you want to.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow and gave Calen an amused look. “So, judging by your tone I see you’ve fallen victim to him too, haven’t you?”

Calen grunted. “You could say that. He beat me up and stole my sword.”

Daniel nodded. “You got off easy then, you did. That crazy Elf set me on fire twice.”

“And now we are to die for him, are we? It’s strange how the world works.”

“Indeed, it is.”

Calen signaled and the men moved out. All carried the same equipment, as instructed by Alan Marshall, who—much to Calen’s dismay—claimed to know more about Elven warfare than the Elves did, insisting on their choice of weaponry and clothing. Just a dagger and a bow, and barely enough arrows to make do. Calen didn’t bother to argue the point, no, it would’ve been foolish. Calen had always known when he was dealing with an unmovable force, and Alan Marshall certainly met the description of one. At any rate, every arrow fired needed to be a kill, at least if Calen’s men—and woman—were to have any chance of success.

They began at a sprint, slowing to a steady walk after an hour’s travel. Calen signaled behind him, ordering his men to lie prone on the ground. Two hundred men slithered along the valley’s short stalks of grass, as quiet as the night itself. They crested a rocky hill roughly ten feet above the valley, overlooking a large, open field with ponds and a river running across from them.

Calen, still lying on the ground, crawled around to turn behind him. “Expect combat shortly,” he whispered. “Pass it back.”

Daniel spun around and whispered to Lira. “Expect combat shortly, pass it back.”

Whispers could be heard a few feet behind Calen, eventually becoming inaudible. Calen removed the bow from his back, feeling a burning jolt of fear travel across his body, but he wouldn’t allow it to show on his face. For the first time in his life he was leading men into battle. He would succeed. He must, succeed.

They smelled the enemies’ encampment long before they saw it. Horse dung and Human feces filled the air, a rotten stench that caused Calen’s eyes to tear. When the first of the enemies’ forces finally came into view, Calen’s stomach tightened further, and he had to force himself not to vomit. Not from the stench, no, but from the sheer number of Humans sleeping ahead of him. Aside from the few guard patrols, most were enjoying the night’s rest, waiting until morning to destroy the Human city of Hahl.

He crept to the edge of the rocky hill overlooking the encampment. He fought the urge to whimper. Their numbers were massive. So massive, Calen wondered what good a mere two hundred men could do against such overwhelming might.

And this isn’t even all of them, he thought. Even if by a miracle from the Gods themselves we win, there’s still a larger force out there somewhere.

Daniel crept to his side, bow in hand, Lira following just behind. “Gods,” Daniel whispered. “It’s almost three times what I brought to Hahl yesterday. How…how is this even possible?”

Horses were tied to the river stretching across from the camp. Some drank, while others slept. The few guard patrols lazily checked their surroundings, and Calen hesitated for a moment as he took in the enormity of the marching army.

“Gods, Daniel,” Calen whispered. “They just go on, and on, and on, for miles. There’s a sea of people out there. Where did they come from? This shouldn’t be possible.”

“Shouldn’t,” Lira agreed. “But is.”

Daniel grinned at the Human woman, leaning in to kiss her. She held out her hand, and his face met her palm. “No way, buddy,” she said. “Not unless we make it out alive. That’s the rule.”

Daniel curled his lips in mock, playful sadness. “I guess we’ll just have to live, then.”

Calen, quietly, spun around and signaled down the line, asking the men to spread out horizontally along the edge of the rocky hill. Only a hundred could fit on the narrow ledge, so the men up front had to crouch down, allowing the hundred forming in a second line behind the first to fire over their heads.

“Awaiting your command,” an Elf said.

“As am I,” Daniel agreed.

Calen ran his right hand along the smooth pine of his Elven bow. He’d never killed a man before, Elf, dwarf, or Human. He ran his left hand slowly up his shirt, caressing his body, taking a moment to pray for his safety to Goddess Helena. His hand continued, over his left shoulder, gently touching his neck, before sliding into the quiver on his back. He removed a single arrow, placing it on the drawstring and pulling back.

“Ready arrows,” he whispered.

For a moment Calen feared the noise would be a bit too much, as two hundred hands removed arrows from quiver and loaded them into their bows.

“We…” Calen’s voice broke. “We…”

“It’s okay, Calen,” Daniel said. “Don’t hesitate. Believe in yourself.”

Why am I afraid? Calen wondered. I shouldn’t be. I was trained for this. I am supposed to be able to do this.

Calen’s hands shook, his heart beating faster. There they were, only a few dozen feet in front of him. Several hundred Humans, their black armor removed, resting peacefully under blankets.

“There is no honor in this.”

Lira sighed. “There’s no honor in any war. There are only the dead children, and the widowed wives. Now, Calen, give the order, or I will. Everyone here believes in you.”

Calen swallowed, sweat forming on his face. “No they don’t. They think I’m a joke, especially after what happened with Sehn.”

“No we don’t,” one of the soldiers said. Calen turned, surprised. He didn’t recognize the soldier, but that wasn’t what shocked him. It was the way he spoke. There was confidence, and affection in his voice. “No matter what happened before this day, Sword Calen, you’re the one with our lives in your hands. Do your father, Helena, and your brothers proud.”

Calen nodded, steadying his nerves. “Listen up.” His voice was just loud enough to be heard by those overlooking the camp. “Prioritize the ones sleeping. Kill as many as you can before they form a counter attack. Our mission is to harass these men for as long as we can before they arrive at Hahl. After this, our hit and run attacks will be expected. We’ll never get another chance to…to…kill as many of them.”

The men saluted, silently, by placing bow over chest. “Aim for the closest men to the east. On three. One. Two.”

Calen pulled back, and ripped all emotion from his mind. His father taught him about this once, and Calen was glad it still worked. He closed his eyes.

“When the time comes to kill,” his father had said. “Imagine nothing but the arrow, and the hand on the string. Make sure that nothing in this world exists, nothing but the two.”

“Then,” his father had said. “Take a breath and hold it. It will steady you, ground you.”

Calen felt the calm—he felt the reassurance of his own skill. He inhaled, holding the air in his lungs.

“Then what, father?” he had said.

His father had looked at him, his eyes so full of pride. The Chief of the Naris clan, Sword-Dominion of Helena, grabbed his shoulders reassuringly. “Then, my son. You kill.”

Calen opened his eyes, and honed in on his prey. “Three.”

There was a snapping sound, filling the night with the twang of released arrows. Not loud enough to wake a single man, but loud enough to fill Calen’s heart with dread. He couldn’t see the arrows in the darkness, but he imagined them traveling, soaring through the air. There was no turning back now.

First there was a scream, and then two screams, then ten. Before long the sound of suffering was the only to be heard. Humans cried out in the night, with such shrill, high-pitched wails, that Calen felt his heart sink at the sound of it.

Shouting added itself to the screaming, confused demands to know what was happening. Calen saw it, even through the night. At least a hundred and fifty men killed, and another fifty dying slow, painful deaths. One man rolled over, waking from his sleep with an arrow jutted between his eyes, protruding through the back of his head. He grabbed the leg of his companion, begging for his life. The companion looked around in confusion. A whistling sound rang, followed by another, and then another, and before long the shouts increased, too. The battle was on.

Yet, despite this, they still failed to pinpoint Calen’s location. “Reload,” he whispered. This time, the sound of arrows being drawn from their quivers could not be heard over the growing commotion. “Fire.”

The snaps of released arrows reverberated around Calen, and another group of men perished. “There! Over there!” one cried. “On the hilltops! On the Gods-forsaken hilltops!”

“No sense whispering,” Daniel said. “We need to run, now.”

“No, we can’t. One more round, Daniel. One more round, and then we run.”

“Reload!” Calen cried in his mightiest voice. He was glad when no one second-guessed him. By all accounts, they should’ve ran upon discovery, but Calen believed in the speed of his archers. “Flee the moment you fire. Quickly now, quickly!”

With a grace learned through years of training, the Elves drew another arrow and fired another volley. Human archers were already rushing the cliff, placing arrows in bows. One collided with the face of an enemy archer. The man, only moments from firing, loosed his arrow into the air, falling dead on his back.

Swordsmen ran with blades unsheathed, running up the hill towards Calen’s men. These men received the brunt of the attack, clutching at stomachs, necks, and groins, as arrows pummeled them, the men falling in their tracks. One let out a quick yelp, before falling backward and rolling down the hill.

“Now run!”

Calen thanked Helena as his men turned and fled down the slope, for only a second later a thousand arrows covered the rocky hill where his men had been standing moments before, enough to end the lives of every last one of them.

A young Elven boy cried in victory. “We must’ve killed at least four-fifty, Sword Calen!”

“If they chase, we’ll kill another four.”

Calen almost stumbled as he skirted back down the hill, grateful when Lira grabbed his arm and steadied him. “I guess Human reflexes aren’t so bad after all,” she teased.

Calen ignored the remark and glanced behind him, all the while running for his life. “I can’t believe that worked. Alan Marshall was right. They never saw it coming.”

“Yeah,” Daniel said. “But now they do. Let’s not slack off.”

Calen led his forces into the darkness of the valley, readying himself for whatever came next.