urry up," Vil shouted, "we'll be late for the parade!"

"Coming," Mey replied, donning on his cloak and walking out towards Vil and his retinue, astride the white forest steed his steppe friends had given to him. "You worry too much, we'll be two days too early for that if everything goes according to plan. And here you are acting like we're going to watch a play that's to start in an hour."

"It doesn't hurt to prepare for the worst," Vil responded, "and our horses are bad at traversing uneven terrain anyway, won't want to be two days late instead."

"The caves we'll travel through are anything but uneven, and you know that! You know very well! 'The quality of a surface is judged by if knights can charge down it', didn't you say?" Mey replied, spurring his horse forward. "And you forgot how you were saved that day?"

Vil chuckled, trying to think of a way out, but Mey knew he was looking for an excuse.

"Oh right, you cannot say 'I forgot', for that'll ruin your claim of having an eidetic memory, so you're thinking of a better excuse, right?" Vil nodded in a disappointed fashion to him, "Lord Sarmäcil, does it physically hurt you to admit that you are wrong?"

"Sometimes," Vil admitted. At last the squad had been gathered: Mey and Vil, two knights waving the flags of Alinor high and proud, and six other knights following. "I have eidetic memory, that's not a point to doubt."

"Don't say that," Mey replied with a smile, "that would be flaunting, which you are against. Despite being strong, honourable, courageous, intelligent, wise, mystical, noble, wealthy, merciful . . . you never flaunt, never!"

Vil laughed, "I'm surprised you remember that, but anyway, let's press on."

And so under the mighty green cairns they passed, the forest canopy blocked out the heavy downpour that came from above and turned it to meagre droplets, simple umbrellas blocking what felt like the longest storm in the century.

"Vil, tell me again: how exactly would we put up a fight against the legions of Morthaur? You're a legate, granted, and your party is tenfold, but the daemons number in millions."

"Mey, my sweet little consort," he laughed, "I am but a cog in the massive engine that is the kingdom. Whilst I and you were wandering around on errands of our own, they did their own task."

"That's great news," Mey nodded, "also I don't remember if I've told you or not: my father said you are more than welcome if you walk into Silverhearth with your legions."

"You did, and I wrote him back. They'll be there in a month, I assumed it'll be better anyway if I use Silverhearth as my base of operations, for the lands of Alinor are already well off."

"You made a good decision, and I'll enjoy having you beside me," Mey shook his head, "by the way, make sure not to flaunt our relationship too much. Though the folk of your home are fairly open to your ideas, my folk are still quite bigoted . . . many of them can't imagine folk of opposing tribes coming together, let alone both of the same gender."

"Don't worry, I'll be careful," Vil reassured him, "and thank you for telling me that. Even if they somehow find out, I won't let them raise a finger at you."

Mey laughed, Vil sounded cute when he said that. "Vil, you don't need to protect me, I can take care of myself. What happens below the sheets is not what has to above them."

"Fine," Vil shook his head, dropping into silence.

...

For nine days they walked the road, walking down the twisted path through the forest and into the heart of the Forest Kingdom. Vil hadn't been here in half a year, but still remembered the city as clear as if he came here yesterday.

With Union Day on the horizon, the whole city gleamed red. Longboat after longboat sailed up and down the overflowing Angkreb, bringing into the city supplies and soldiers. The deep roads, usually desolate and dark, loomed as crowded as Alinor's.

The city of Silverhearth lay turbulent upon a busy Angkreb, garbed in hues of gold and orange as if afire, but the only thing which burned inside was the fire of the hearts of its peoples, whose numbers swelled every day as more and more visitors came in. No more was the trot up the palace a peaceful walk, but rather a semi-parade through a busy street.

In the end, Vil had the last laugh – they were two days late. Although owing to the heavy rains, so was everyone else, and thus (as they had gathered from the citizens) the Union Day parade had simply been delayed by six days (i.e. four days from the present).

Vil and Mey stepped into the palace to be welcomed by their father: King Arvedui, who in contrast to the haughty figure Vil had met half a year ago, seemed a completely different person: a humble figure, more than happy to see high-elves in his kingdom.

"Welcome, Lord Vilyánur my son," he embraced Vil, "how goes the war?"

"Fairly well, father," Vil replied, "we have discovered useful information about the daemons of Morthaur, the situation is a bit concerning but nothing we can't handle."

"And what is that?"

"The cultists will be attempting to bring Morthaur in with the help of a daemon-mount; I believe they'll be the one in your forests, a couple days distance from here."

"Ah, I see. So should we send forces to reinforce it?"

"Sadly, we do not know where it is. But luckily, it'll take more than a couple weeks to summon Morthaur, and the rising waves of energy will warn half the world of it so we can find out without much trouble."

"That's good news," King Arvedui lowered his head, "so did you come alone or did you bring your legion with yourself?"

"They'll be here in half a month," Vil replied, "I'm sure they'll love this place."

"I hope they do, they're the only heavy infantry I can trust," King Arvedui chuckled, "our heavy infantry is a joke: better at running about and menacing supply lines than holding their own on the battlefield."

"At least you have good skirmishers," Vil replied, "I might switch all my high-elf skirmishers for wood-elf ones."

"Then you're right in time to, the most prominent fractions of the Great Forest Army are gathered tonight, in four days the parades will begin."

"Four days? I thought we were already two days late?"

"Well, the heavy downpour has slowed down many, so it'll take a bit longer for all the main fractions to assemble. Rest for the while, treat this place as your own home, you can stay with Meneldir if you want to."

"Thank you, o king."

*****

By late-autumn the rain had stopped, the dark clouds driven away by the gnarly winds of pre-winter. Leaves of gold and red clattered the royal cobblestone highway, surrounded by cheering crowds on both sides.

Horns bellowed, winds echoed, and the calls of the glade-lords rang loud and clear, issuing the soldiers to start moving. Mey and Vil stood beside the king, overlooking the parade from the high parapets, enjoying profoundly.

"This is called a Wild Hunt," Mey replied, "a host of hunters from every tribe."

"Ah," Vil nodded. "What will they hunt? Mere animals or daemons most vile?"

"Whoever seeks to harm our folk and desecrate our vales," answered Mey, "when wood-elven armies go to war, the war-hosts are referred to as hunter-packs, oft seen by other folk as a stream of spirits, elves and animals moving through the forest with great speeds. I've been in few of these, and it feels so glorious riding beside these . . . noble warriors."

"Must be a grand experience," Vil replied.

"Aye . . . and when our forests are threatened? All the woodland-folk join together to come together in what is known as a Wild Hunt . . . a Leader of the Wild Hunt is chosen, and under their command we go to battle against those who seek to desecrate their vales. It's about time a new one is called, to protect the vales and those who dwell in it from the wrath of Morthaur and those who are on his side."

"Great, it's about to commence," Vil replied, nearing the railing, looking over the parapets and onto the highway.

Loud the trumpets blared, followed by the beat of drums and strings of lutes. Vil was awed, but so was Mey – he had never heard this theme before, not in his own city anyway. Could it be?

Alas, he was right: high the banners of the Forest Kingdom fluttered, not green, but red with a tree of gold, and beside it fluttered a red banner with a golden tree with stars: the banner of the Old Alinor-Alledor Commonwealth.

"Father, did you?"

"Aye," the king nodded, "thought it was time you young folk got to see how we saw it."

First they saw a rider: an elegant noble draped in red, astride a white hart with red eyes, his hands clutched around a lance and kite shield, an antlered helm on his head. His retinue of sixty followed, astride grey elks.

Behind them followed legions of winter-guards, clad in lamellar, armed with blue shields and ice-tipped spears. Two centuries they counted, followed by an elf holding their pale banner high aloft.

And behind them were platoons of satyrs and sasquatches, followed by centaurs and minotaurs, a variety of wild beasts following: intermingled with the various elven and semi-elven folk, all facing the king and saluting him.

And then followed the forest trolls: living trees in the shape of giants, carrying clubs of wood in hand, behind them more forest elves: this time shock-troopers armed with sabre-staves, men and women together in the ranks, fluttering red banners alongside their own.

"This is brilliant," said Mey, a fire of patriotism burning in his heart, "long live the peoples."

"Long live us all," Vil replied, "Long live us Red Elves! Long live Alledoria!"

...

"How many are there?" asked Vilyánur.

"In total," said Meneldir, "two thousand individuals in this parade, which is a mere one-fiftieth of the immediate force, the total force though is ten times that size."

"One million?" gawked Vil in horror, "you have a million warriors on your side?"

"Well, not really. That is roughly the number of people we can hypothetically 'call to arms' under our banners, not like we can ever get those one million in a single place."

"Damn, that's ten times our default dynamic military strength, and thrice as many units as all the house-legions and state-legions combined."

"Well, you have higher quality of arms and armour compared to us, most of our units just walk into the battlefield carrying mere kitchen knives and hunting bows."

"Ah well, not always really," Vil replied, "every one of our units are not as well equipped as the ones you've seen, although not kitchen knives level of ill-equipped."

"Told you," Mey laughed.

"But your people have more experience, most of our folk are factory-workers and farmhands, they cannot tolerate the daunting challenges of traversing the wilderness."

"Even though your soldiers fare better in unfriendly territory?"

"That's just the legionnaires, not the common folk. Also when going abroad, we hire a ton of auxiliaries, and try to use legions grown in similar terrains to where we're going. Also partisans, they play a big part in all of this. Although to be fair, your legions seem well off, especially with the high concentrations of chaos energy I sense amongst them."

"What?" Mey asked, puzzled by his words, "our warriors don't use chaos energies."

"What?" Vil looked at him and then back at the parade. "Then where are these immense chaotic radiations coming from?"

Mey put his attention into the host, only to feel Vil confirmed. The air was lade with a dark smell, as if decaying flesh. "This is no elf instrument."

*****

All of a sudden there came a shriek, followed by a thunderous roar which at first may have been mistaken to be the roar of a forest-dragon, but the rumbling voices were much more evil and powered by otherworldly energies.

"Oh no," Vil clutched his sword, "brace yourself!"

As they looked up into the sky, a burst of white light was accompanied with terrified shrieks and the ringing of bells, entire swathes of soldiers turned to ash before they could notice.

Chaos ensued. The citizens rushed hither and thither, those who could shot with arrows and javelins back at the assailant, but ere long they struck they bent and snapped and fell away, penetrating not the steel scales of the dragon.

Trudging through the black smoke, Vil and Mey found the king and his retinue, taking shelter below stone from the chaotic fires of the dragon.

"We must flee!" shouted Vil, "Mey, return to the palace . . . this is no ordinary dragon, this is one of the greater daemons of Morthaur. He is a great peril to you."

"And what about you? I'm not leaving you be."

"Mey, look," he looked him in the eyes, "my arcane aura can absorb some of the chaos flames, yours cannot. Go to the castle, prepare your ballistae and volley upon the dragon. I'll try to have him not kill many of your citizens."

"Alright," Mey nodded, running away with the king, Vil left behind to fend for himself.

Once there, Mey and his warriors hastened to the main turret where the dragonslayer lay: the great ballista built for this sole purpose.

It was Hakon Keen-Eye, son of Fulwin, who aimed the weapon at the dragon, his vision piercing smoke and ash to find the green eye of the beast from out of mere blackness, to his eye it trailed like a green orb amid the shadows of night.

Taking an easy breath, he squeezed the trigger, shooting a bolt through the ashes, striking the dragon in his gullet. The bolt pierced through its iron hide, the beast gasped as the bolt passed into his windpipe and out, but he was still alive.

Once more he shot, landing a strike upon his soft underbelly, missing its black heart by a very little margin. And that was it: the dragon struck the bolt with a river of green flame, washing it away in the torrent, Hakon Keen-Eye died there brave and stern.

"Stop right there, foul beast!" a voice called out of the blue.

The dragon looked back, turning its head to look to the ground below him. There stood Vilyánur, in his hand a sword of great power: one which he knew to fear.

"Yes, this is Darrian's sword, and I shall use it upon you if you do not avaunt here and now."

And longer Vil spoke, but all he did was incur the ire of the dragon. "Fool," he echoed fell and dark, "you will perish in flames!"

The beast prepared a bolt of green flames, but before he could shoot it, a bolt of blue flames entered from the shadow and towards him.

...

In spent another dragon: Muldred, the Lord of Star-Wyrms, had descended from the shadows to battle the daemon himself.

"Run away, daemon," Muldred echoed clear and loud, "lest I kill you with fang and claw."

"I do not fear your kind," he replied, "my troops have surrounded the city already, no matter what you do, your friends are doomed. No dragons can save them now; Lord Morthaur is coming for all of you!"

Muldred roared, his voice a deep screech, menacing yet soothing. And the daemon roared back, its voice terrible and painful. And longer the battle of roars continued. It was a battle of psionic energies, a battle invisible to all but those who fought.

For long the two hovered over the city, locked in dread stare against each other. For an hour it continued, occasionally one or the other assaulting with a burst of flames green or blue.

At last the strength of the daemon faltered, the bolt on his neck seeping green blood into the houses below, fiery and smoking. The many injuries on his body suffered from the blue fires maimed him, weakening his strength.

Four times his guard broke, and four times Muldred attacked him with a spell that would crush the minds of weaker foes, and four his eyes shone red like rubies as he cast the spell. And the air about him was simmering with heat, coupled with the chilly breath of pre-winter, in the change his scales were hit with bolts of fire, cracking apart like ice, and at last he gave in and plummeted to the earth below him.

Going down in a spiral, he landed on a farmland barren and wrought, in the process of fallowing. And then Muldred attacked him one last time, with a breath of flames so intense, it turned the very sand of the ground to glass, and melt the steel hoes to liquid, and the daemon was defeated.

A round of cheer went about for Muldred, happy citizens rejoicing at the coming of the great dragon.

"Cease your applause," he alerted them, "the siege has only begun, daemons stand outside your gates, deal with them first."