Blood-red dawn drenched the parapet. Far to the east, just beyond the crest of land where the Dwarf Hills obscured a view of the sea, the sun had broken cover. Its light, diffused by the tendrils of mist and cloud that draped the countryside, seemed to make the very air glow a deep crimson. The mists swirled softly where brushed by a rising wind, a faint odor of decay seeming to ride on the currents. The wind would be blowing from the south, thought Findelfin. Now we'll have to smell their filth for the entire battle.
From the turret, Findelfin could see them coming. Huge decaying tree-trunks lumbered forward, their bark splintering with every motion of huge, hummus-encrusted roots, wolf corpses running ahead, baying through their decayed vocal cavities the long, slow dirge of death. And among the horde Findelfin could see the sight that made him most angry: corrupted elves. They were the defenders of Carnelost who had not died during the fighting to become zombies, but had been unable to resist the charms and evil necromantics of Xem'zûnd, their bodies consumed and reborn even before their spirits could flee their flesh. They led the columns of evil as lieutenants and commanders. Corrupted elves were peril incarnate: not only did they retain most of their critical faculties, but they also retained their souls -- and thus they could cast song magic. And even worse, their conversion granted them some small measure of Xem'zûnd's power: they could raise new undead at will.
With this thought in mind, Findelfin turned and addressed one of his officers, "How much fuel do we have for the fires?"
"Enough to maintain a full blaze for at least four days, sir, and we can keep the fires stoked at a low burn for at least a fortnight, unless we get other sources of fuel from..." the officer trailed off, but Findelfin knew what he meant to say. It had to be done: every elf that fell in the coming battle would need to be fed to the fire, and instantly. The bodies of the fallen would be the "other sources of fuel."
"Very good. When Vanwanen Bridge falls, stoke the fires to their full capacity." He did not need to extend fuel reserves for two weeks. By that time, they would be either dead or victorious. He wished it had been possible to light fires at the bridge as well, but it looked impossible; he would have to rely on Turlin mages to consecrate the fallen there and keep them from being harmed.
Another officer quickly mounted the stairs, speaking quickly as he neared Findelfin. "General, sir, the High Bard begs your council prior to battle." Findelfin nodded at the officer.
"I will speak with him, lead the way." The officer saluted and turned to walk away, with Findelfin close on his heels. With a brisk run down the stairs, the officer led Findelfin through a large crowd milling about near the front gate to a small door leading to one of the guardrooms. Most of the mob withdrew from his pathway, but some which only stared dumbly as he passed. This crowd was made up of mainly conscripts, able-bodied elves found in the city whose terms of reserve service in Tel Aglarim had passed but were still required to serve should danger press. The others, mainly an assortment of humans and other races, had been visitors, were asked to serve, and chose to honor the call. They were a ragged bunch, but Findelfin had led worse.
As he approached Oronra, the Megilindari Dagorathar said, "Come, General Findelfin. The High Bard is within, we have final bits of strategy to go over...the enemy appears about a half-hour away, we must hurry to finalize a few things before we begin."
With only a nod, Findelfin entered through the door.
((Those of you who PMed me, you are now volunteer troops in the Elvish army. Post here and we'll start in earnest.))
Submit Thread for Judgment