ey grasped his bow and perched atop the southern walls, staring out towards the fields that surrounded the city. He was horrified: enemy hordes as far as the naked eye can see, gathered in a crescent around the Silver City, threatening the lives of those who lived within. "What do we do now?" he asked Vil, heavy in despair and awe.

"Can you aid us here?" Vil turned to Muldred, eyes full of plea.

"I can help, but I cannot rid your foes and end the siege, the enemy has powerful doom-cannons for that very reason, they came prepared. What we need now is to attack their back lines, although that won't be easy."

Yes, what he said was true, but the elves would not give up without a fight, even though the enemies, sixty thousand strong, outnumbered the total mass within three-to-one.

"Give up now," a chaos-elf said from outside, "lest we sweep through your city and kill all."

"You're welcome to try!" yelled Elrid, captain of the guard. "Let us see who outlasts whom."

"This is folly," Mey lamented, "Without the rest of our units, we are all but outnumbered."

"Do not fear," Vil put his hand on Mey's shoulder, "we can win the battle if we hold them off until relief arrives, that's less than two weeks if time is on our side. We'll fight them on the streets if we have to, we'll fight them with fire and frost, we'll fight them with stone, we shall show them the strength of the folk of Alledoria!"

Soldiers left and right cheered up at his speech, his message echoing in their hearts, and their feet echoed too, not by rousing speech but by bombardment: boulders big and small were lobbed at the walls.

HOLD TIGHT!

Vil shouted, reinforcing their troops' courage, their hearts stalwart in the face of impending doom. The Silver City had never fallen before, it won't fall this time.

Fortunately for them, Silverhearth's natural defences made it difficult to besiege: the inner sanctums of the city were built upon an island on the river, and the outer districts upon a plateau with only three great gates connecting it to the world below.

Each of these gates went down a long and windy path surrounded by lofty walls and three gatehouses, making it a challenge for enemies to breach through. The daemons, however, with their superior artillery, had little to fret about.

...

The first day was uneventful, mostly mere assaults and ineffective bombardment. Below the walls daemons clustering like a swarm of ants, tender for the archers to shoot down. At times wood-elf knights and dragons rallied out, attacking the sides of the army and retreating away like faint memories.

The second day Vil charged out, leading a host of wood-elf knights, astride a white stag. His sword gleamed pale in the light of the afternoon sun, his glinted helm was that of the headdress of the war-god himself. But he dealt little damage ere he had to flee back.

And lo, on the third day the first gatehouse fell, daemons thronged inside, climbing the long walkway up, only to be thrown back by the second gatehouse, hot sand and acid poured atop them. A cohort of warriors entered, a river of chaotic bile mingled with acid and sand exited.

That night the daemons mounted a night attack, but Muldred and his companions struck back and killed the summoners ere they could call for their greater daemons.

"Well, that went well," Mey commented, "three days down, eleven more to go."

"Don't be too happy about it," Vil replied, "our situation here is pretty desperate."

"I have faith in you, you're a war hero, you defeated Krayn-"

"I didn't defeat him, alright," Vil yelled, "Sareth did, I did help him bring the batteries and also fixed the circuits, but it was Sareth who triggered the warpgate which took his life, I didn't kill him, I just was the only survivor!"

The whole barracks fell silent, most of them wondering what they just heard. Vil could hear their thoughts: some of them berated him as a pretentious liar, for he did not kill Krayn directly; yet more looked up to him with awe, for he did not kill Krayn directly.

"Vil, that counts as-" Mey paused. He was no wizard, but he could sense Vil's pain.

"There there," he embraced Vil, the soldiers around him feeling not disgust but sympathy for Vil. There they stood below the crumbling roofs, the sound of battle and bombardment drowned by the voice of the two lords clutched in each other's embrace.

"Lord Vilyánur," a wood-elf archer approached him, "we understand you, quite better than you can tell, for we are not fools, neither are we heartless savages. Maybe once we were, but now no more."

"I understand that, and I respect that," Vil nodded, "but now I'm running low on hope."

"The night is coldest ere the rising of the sun," a soldier spoke from behind. "War is horrible, and we have to live through it. And if we die, we shall die fighting."

And the soldiers hailed to that, echoing the sound of battles alongside.

*****

The fourth day approached: pale shrouds of soulless mist churned up to encircle the field, gilding away with the touch of chaos as daemons moved in the shadow. Horns bellowed and beasts gnarled, steel hissed and terrors snarled.

Vil stood on the high walls, his black hair fluttered in the wind, dazzled in the sun's fiery light; his eyes sparkled like sparks of caesium flame in a dark room as he looked onto the horizon and into the darkness marching at them. Beside him stood Mey, helmless but stout.

"Wear a helmet, Mey," Vil ordered him.

"I need everyone to see me and know who I am, I'm their general."

"Being a general doesn't make you impervious to arrows."

Mey shrugged and put on his helmet, watching as the hosts of Morthaur advanced in silence, spears rising from a sea of heads like winter thickets.

Orders were issued, hordes of enemies charged from the shadows like wolves out of the forest, charging at the second gatehouse with multiple battering rams, but dealt little damage as gravity worked against them.

The archers, although tied down by a horde of chaos gargoyles, were quick to take their foes down with swift strikes of sword and javelin. At last Muldred swooped in and set a thousand foes trapped between the two gatehouses on fire, burning them to death. That was it for the fourth day.

"Well, if this keeps on, we can outlast them for years!" a soldier said in joy.

"No, it doesn't feel right," Mey pondered on the situation, "they-"

He hushed, something moved below him, as if boring through the earth. A worm, he thought at first, but then he realised: not even the death worms of the grey wastes were that big.

"Brace yourselves!" he shouted, but nobody heard him soon enough. Before he could notice, a part of the wall came crumbling down.

The warriors shrieked in horror, looking towards the crumbling gatehouse with fear.

The whole attack was a diversion; their main plan was to demolish the walls all along, and that's what it did: the third gatehouse came down crumbling, its many bricks falling apart and onto the lowland below.

As the dust settled, they saw the enemy charging in, climbing the stony ramps and into the city grounds, bypassing the second gatehouse altogether.

"Soldiers! To battle!" yelled Vilyánur, mounting again his white stag, spear in hand. Like a bolt of thunder he fell upon the enemy, those who believed in him following.

...

No matter how well they fought, the wood-elves made poor heavy cavalry, their inferior metal bent and bowed upon contact with the chaos-elf shields, deflecting as easily as their arrows. The balance of power had shifted, now the enemy was within their quarters.

Satyrs, sasquatches, elves, minotaurs . . . one by one, they all hurled themselves upon the enemy, but one by one they all squandered away, withering away like old leaves in autumn.

For hours they fought, and the wood-elves were losing, yet they refused to give up. Their courage like wildfire, spread between them, and longer they fought on.

Soldiers of Alledoria: keep your heads held high!

Stalwart you stand; though your end looms nigh!

With your blood holy, your corpses wet the sand!

Here we shall die, for King and your Motherland!

The wood-elves cheered, but died all the same. Like brave heroes they fought and like brave heroes they died, their names and blood carved in stone and sand, riddled with the blood of their foes. And longer they fought on, heeding not the turning tides nor the shifting winds.

As the sun set into the horizon, the autumn woods glistened gold as if the treasury of an ancient king, and with it came ships upon the shores of the city.

Vil looked back in dismay, those ships bore banners he'd last wish for: elves of the Nelyär Clan, one of the greatest enemies of the Minyär Clan: enemies of the House of Alinor. The last thing he needed now was encirclement, especially now that he was left with a physically inferior force against a relentless opponent.

"Nelyär elves," Mey groaned, "what are they doing here?"

"What do you think?" said Vil, "but I tell you this: they'll pay dearly for their deeds, they chose the wrong side to be on."

But now was not the time to despair, their enemy marched towards them, forming a phalanx of pikes five metres long. Ere they could form defences, the wood-elves were trapped between daemons and pikes.

But no, something was different about them, they marched through the wood-elves archer-battalions, deploying in front of them and right behind Vil and his retinue.

Vil got the cue and pulled a retreat, passing through the gaps in the ranks as the pikemen lowered the forest, forming a five-pike deep formation between them and the daemons. Like a storm the daemons charged again, but their might fell vain before the heavy-infantry of the Nelyär: those adept in the art of warfare.

"Lord Vilyánur," the leader of the host approached him, "I know what you're thinking, and no, we didn't come here to enact vengeance upon you. We came here because we share this world, whatever happens here, we will share our fate."

"Excellent," Vil smiled in joy. "How can I repay you?"

"Do not thank us, for we did not come here to be repaid, we came here to offer a defence until relief arrived."

"Relief?" questioned Vil, "you are mere five hundred, how will you hold off the attack for two weeks?"

"Look to the west," the captain replied, his eyes fixed over the horizon.

*****

As the sun began her descent into the shadows, a horn bellowed from over the horizon, accompanied by drums and flutes. At first it felt like the call of Morthaur, but soon it grew from that into fair music.

Black spears pierced out of the hill, blocking out the last light of the sun, silhouettes of riders following: the legions of Vilyánur had finally come heeding the call of their lord. Fear engulfed the daemons, who now in their dismay hurried to reform their lines, their morale dropping like flies.

Thus to battle the chaos-knights charged, their evil steeds charring the muddy ground as they rushed, yet their speed slowed by the thick layers of mud. Amongst the screams of their comrades and the sound of horses galloping, they forgot to heed to the enemy.

From out of the shadows, great behemoths approached, their very sights scaring the horses to a full halt. A trumpet bellowed at a distance and the elephants charged, their swinging tusks snapping spears and neck together, the chaos-knights caught in a stampede.

High-elf knights charged from over the horizon, charging into the enemy lines with great force alongside the elephants, rolling through the enemy lines like a wave through a sandbank. Some dared to raise pike-walls against the elephants, but in a volley of cannon-fire they fell vain.

"Charge!" the elves yelled from the city, sallying out of the gates and onto the black muds below. And now the daemons feared, the conjurers warping away into the nether with haste.

Vilyánur, astride his white stag, cut through the ranks of enemies with haste, a flurry of electricity about him, until at least he joined with his own riders. "Glarion," Vil called aloud, "how did you come so fast?"

"The storms," he replied, "they were not mere storms, they were arcane storms. Our mages took command of one, modified them, and warped us to this point."

"Excellent, your arrival was most timely, a little later and you'd be freeing a city of corpses now."

"We know," Vareth approached from behind, "I can't believe our fate, such things do not happen always."

"Well, whatever," Mey rode in, "at least the city's freed, and the enemy's on the run."

"No, this isn't over yet," Vil replied, his eyes wandering up a hillock: there stood Nixior, swirls of pale green wrapped around his hands, alongside Serethir, two fire-giants surrounding him. "We still have to cut the head off the snake."

They looked in enthusiasm, their weapons readied. "Shall we?" Mey asked.

Vil gave him a nod, turning his stag towards the hill. Like a swift gale of autumn they charged, appearing as a trail of colours as they ploughed through the enemy, and all who stood before them fled, until at last they faced the generals.

...

Like an angry lion Vil pounced through the ranks, his eyes reddened by the blood of his foes, killing the many generals who stood there keeping the daemon-portals open. With a swift blow of his sword he slew his foes, until none remained.

"Mey! We did it!" he cried at last, his banners fluttering high in the air. But no answer came to him, for Meneldir was not there.

"Mey," he called, "Mey? Mey! Meneldir . . . where are you?"

Do not fret, said a disembodied voice, making Vil shake with fright and dismay. No, you idiot! I didn't die! I'm talking to you via long-distance telepathy!

Oh, Vil spoke back, and where are you?

Don't freak out . . . but the enemy has captured me.

Vil stood there petrified in horror.

Do not worry, do exactly as I tell you if you have to win this battle.

Mey! How could you! Vil cried, do not fear, I will save you! I promise I won't let you get any harm from them!

Do not worry, I did all of this on my own accord, said Mey, I am close to a pylon now . . . plus my binds are frail; I can escape now if I wish, but I do not want to.

Why not? Vil questioned.

Because you have to spend one night without me, said Mey. Now listen carefully: I want you to go summon Krayn into this world and win him over to our side, then appear before the Burial Mount by tomorrow evening with my hunters and your loyalists, together our armies can stop Morthaur from coming into this world and safeguard it once and for all.

But will the wood-elves of the royalest host accept me as their leader? Vil looked down, I am a high-elf, a city-bred scholar. I am no hunter.

Sometimes our destiny leads us to unexpected places. When the time calls, we have to unlearn all we know to learn it all from the beginning – relearn what we already know, and then use the knowledge. The Wild Hunt needs an able leader; to them it doesn't matter whether you're a wood-elven king or a goblin scamp, if you are strong . . . you will lead. And, Vilyánur Sarmäcil, whom we wood-elves love to dub Lindrúin Lúthmegil, you are the strongest warrior, ablest leader, and greatest friend I have ever known. The Hunt is not mine to command, but yours. Therefore, take your sword up, Lord Hunter, and take the mantle of the Hunt Leader. I will be waiting for your arrival.