The rain had the extra benefit of eliminating the solidity of any ground along the wall, thus prohibiting scaling ladders. Siege towers couldn't roll. Men couldn't get a foothold to use a battering ram. So they all stood in the rain and waited, but the Druids could keep this up all day.
Back in Nez Ambríl, things were about to grow dire. Forms began to fly out of the bank of fog. Grotesque shapes that seemed to be mocking the Human body, part monkey, part toad, with rows of vicious teeth, and bat wings screaming into the night sky.
These Agruzar were definitely larger than what Pelisir had described. Nearly Human-sized.
Father Vastila stood on the portion of the city's wall that went over the gate, the Gatekeepers, armed and armored to the teeth, their horses in gleaming steel barding, stood below, their steeds stamping the ground and whinnying.
One of the beasts came hurtling out of the fog and grabbed an archer standing only a few feet away from Father Vastila, carried him up a hundred feet or more and dropped him into the ranks of the Gatekeepers leaving him impaled on a lance. The devil screamed in victory.
Mother Felistia wasn't far away either, and holding her holy symbol, a seven-pointed star amulet, in her left hand, extended her right and released what can only be described as a concentrated beam of pure sunlight at the creature who gave a quick and abbreviated shriek before it simply vanished.
Below, Pelisir called out “Gatekeepers!” and the gates began to open.
Father Vastila held his hands about a foot apart and began making motions like he was forming something between them. Slowly a brilliant ball of light formed and gained solidity and definition. He held it there, waiting, and when the gates swung far enough open, 250 Gatekeepers shot from the gap like an arrow from a bow at the wall of fog. Only then did Father Vastila hurl his orb into the devils’ midst. There was a brief sound as the thing imploded before releasing a light of such intensity that the whole forest was lit like daytime for a moment. The screams of the creatures being disintegrated carried through the night sky, reaching both friend and foe alike, either encouraging or debilitating for one or the other.
The Gatekeepers crashed through the fog, emerging on the other side of the square formation. Some were missing, others were covered in black ichor. The 200 or so remaining let out yells and whoops of victory that sent chills down many thousand Swalesian backs, shaking their already thin confidence. These men were driven in combat by fear, not pride or honor, and their morale reflected that.
The whole time the Swalesian infantry had been in the Taliswood, they had been steadily picked off, one man at a time, by relentless sniping from the limbs of the massive redwoods, circled by packs of Moon Elf horse archers and their stragglers run down by the zombie cavalry of the Barrow Elves.
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As they continued to bypass Ilníst, it was obvious that the Swalesian commanders sought to decapitate the Elves by taking Nez Ambríl. The harassment they were enduring in the blackness of the rain-soaked night was beginning to cause some of the weaker Swalesian units to waver. Men were beginning to break and run in small groups, and the Heksa Kral, from horseback with their great two-handed scimitars, began killing the deserters, further weakening morale.
Had the Swalesians been under the command of a more modern military mind, the night should have been theirs, but their general, Abdur’frit, at 75, was stuck in a mindset where everything was frontal assaults and charges and fear and discipline were the only bywords that mattered. A soldier should be proud to die for the Mouth of God.
By the time the Hobgoblin army had flanked the Swalesians, Dwarves began to appear, from the South as did the Human troops out of Feersland with their signature chainmail kilts, spears and shields, from the West. When the entire Swalesian host began to break, the Heksa Kral were beginning to be pulled from their saddles and slaughtered, Swalesian commanders chased down and killed.
What should have been an easy victory was turning into a rout. With the Heksa Kral out of the picture, many of the Swalesians began to surrender en masse.
Tracking down their senior commander in the field was no easy task. He was either hiding or had run off. Shortly, four common soldiers brought the man forward, cowering in fear and pleading for his life.
“Do you speak the Commons Tongue, Sir?”
“Just a bit, My Lord, and not very good. Thank you for your generous offer. I surrender my troops to your kindness and charity.”
“ I've not offered anything yet, General …”
“Yaq’tib, My Lord, General Yaq’tib, fourth son of Ashter’til from the city of Prim.”
“Yes, yes,” Palisir said dismissively, "you are not my concern this night. I'm going to have some of your men escort you so that you don't run. I want you to go get your supreme commander and bring him here to discuss the terms of surrender. Tell him, if he tries to escape, he'll never make it out of the Taliswood, not alive at least.”
“Yes, My Lord. I will see that it is done.”
Thirty minutes later, hoofbeats could be heard coming up the Forest Road. The Swalesian delegation. One man on horseback was hooded and bound to his horse. General Yaq'tib’s horse sidled up to the man and the commander jerked off the hood. It was Prince Anoresti.
“Where is Abdur’frit? And why are you here, Anoresti? Looking to gloat over your victory?”
“Just tell me what are your terms, Elf!”
“You, shut your mouth you craven son of a whore! You are in a position to demand nothing!”
You know, Prince, your perception of yourself and your abilities is dangerously out of sync with reality. You've been here twice. Both times you've suffered embarrassing defeat! People laugh at the name Anoresti behind your back, and you still don't learn! Dumb and arrogant won't get you far in life unless, of course, your father is the Khan.”
The surrendered troops who could speak enough Common laughed as Anoresti looked like he was about to burst into flames with anger.
“Here are your terms, you will completely disarm back at your staging area. You will take enough food to get you back to Swalesia. You will take your barges with you, but you will first release every slave on board. You will be a rower, My Prince. Your barges will not stop until you reach your home country. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Pelisir, we are clear. But this is a death sentence for me. I had Father give me this command despite the protests of his advisors. He'll have me executed.”
“I'll make you a deal, Prince, give me a reason why I should care and I'll let you go. If it's not good enough, I'll allow your men to kill you right here. Who do you think would be the more compassionate?”
Not saying another word, he hung his head and his men took him back to the staging area.