The Outcast Army

Figures slinking through the brush were masked by the darkening sky and cloaks camouflaged with browns and green. The clothing they wore hardly resembled shirts or pants, but seemed to be extensions of the woods themselves. Light did not show the bright fair skin of their elven heritage, it was dimished by mud and concoctions devised specifically to conceal flesh from the eye. They stole from shadow to shadow, unseen to any that were unaware of their presence, even other wood elves, creeping to the bodies of the fallen sylvankind. These fallen wood elves were part of Lord Hannibal’s host. The scouts hoped to find some of the missing men and women alive.

A man stood silent, further back from the scouts, his waywatchers. Black armor of leather sheathed his entire body, a black cloak billowing behind him in the cold sea wind. His dark brown eyes surveyed the scene before him with placidness, the ire that roiled behind them reserved for someone else. Several companies of the forests best archers scattered or fell today, the result of a brilliant charge by a smaller unit of errant knights. The rest of his forces failed to commit or were harried by battlefield confusion. This impart to the misdirection of one Highborn elf. The elf arrived early in the morning, just before the battle and caused havoc among the ranks with regards to the battle plan. Sent by arrogant lords and nobles of Athel Loren to right what they believe Hannibal was wronging. With his crazed machinations for the battle the original plans were shattered as the fighting reered its ugly head. This caused the day to be fought to a draw with Lord Rincewind’s forces, and the death of the Highborn himself.

“I never liked him much anyway,” commented Hannibal as he looked down at the lifeless body of the elf. To the elf lord's credit, he fought and slew a great number of knights, before another contingent ran him down. Hannibal’s black charger pawed the ground beside him, snorting her dissatisfaction. The man’s hand patted the hard flank of the horse. “Easy, this was not our mess, but I am afraid it is now.”

“That is right.” A voice came from behind him. The lighthearted voice of Princess Ilyara felt diminished, burdened with grief, “There is more bad news.”

“To achieve victory the “lords of Athel Loren” needed a much greater victory.” Disgust lined the words as the man spoke. “With such a loss of force we will not hold all of the ground we took, and I am willing to wager the item our illustrious nobles wanted so badly, is not what it appeared to be.”

“Right, right, and right again.” The elven maiden nodded slowly, with still more to come. The man said nothing, letting her speak instead of talking for her as he usually did. The news she needed to tell him next affected everyone that was left in his army and it was hers to bear to him. She took a step closer, her smaller frame dwarfed behind him. ”We are being blamed for this failure. We are outcasts now, unable to return to Athel Loren on pain of death, even hunted by some of our bretheren.” Her voice started to crack, the pain she must feel from all ties being severed from her home and family was something Hannibal was unable to share. He was still a man, and she an elf princess, but he knew she might be lacking in that title for remaining loyal to his army. She said we, Hannibal knew full well it was his burden to bear and rightfully he should let it fall upon him. A smile crossed his lips that she did not see, but he would not let her loyalty go unnoticed.

“Much of our rear forces are intact. They maintain a heavy presence along the forest that is growing. The range of the chaos relic we found did not manage to taint it and our casters concealed the vile magic as best they could. I sent runners to everyone loyal to you to rally there.”

“Princess.” The man interrupted her. She stopped immediately, lowering her head as if to receive more punishing words.

“I am not a Princess anymore,” she said so softly the wind almost carried her words away before Hannibal could hear them.

“Princess Ilyara,” he started again his voice much softer than before. “Are you hurt?” His head turned and he adjusted his body to look back at her. She stared up at him, her silvery eyes shining happily at his effort to show her the respect he knows she deserves.

“I am fine, perfectly fine, my Lord.”

“That makes me very happy,” he said. “I was worried.” With a motion of his hand he indicated the blood of men and elves splattered across the field, and the fallen lord at his feet. His face looked much harder now, his mind set to the mission of survival. He lifted his slightly, and let a smile creep back to his lips. She moved closer and let him embrace her tightly. With a hand he wrapped the cloak around her and started to walk away from the lonely field. It was warm inside the heavy material and she took comfort there, knowing that harder times lie ahead.