It was eerie, Hadrian thought, seeing her addressing heads of state, as calmly as if she were holding a tea party for children.
“As most of you already know, Avryn has been invaded. We believe the attack began more than a month ago, but we were uncertain until very recently. The information comes from the refugees fleeing south and twelve teams of scouts I had sent north, many of whom never returned. Sir Breckton, if you will please explain the situation as it now stands…”
Sir Breckton rose and stood before the assembly, wearing a long black cape over his dress tunic. All eyes turned to him, not just because he was about to speak, but because Sir Breckton was one of those men who commanded attention. There was something in the way he held himself. He managed to appear taller, straighter, and stouter than other men. Breckton made a formal bow to the empress, then faced the table.
“While none of the scouts managed to pierce the advance troops to report on the main body of the elven army, what we have learned is unsettling enough. We now believe that at midnight on Wintertide, elements of the Erivan Empire crossed the Nidwalden River with a force estimated at over a hundred thousand. They conquered the kingdom of Dunmore in less than a week and Glamrendor is gone. King Roswort, Queen Freda, and their entire court—lost, presumably on their return trip from the Wintertide celebration.”
Heads turned left and right and Hadrian heard the words hundred thousand and less than a week repeated between them. Breckton paused for only a moment before speaking again.
“The elven host continued west, entering unopposed into Ghent. Estimates suggest they conquered it in eight days. Whether Ghent put up a fight, we don’t know. It has been confirmed, however, that the university at Sheridan was burned and Ervanon destroyed.”
The men at the table shifted with more anxiety but less was said.
“They entered Melengar next,” he told them, and a few heads turned toward Alric. “Drondil Fields made a last stand, heroically providing time for as many as possible to escape south. The fortress managed to hold out for one day.”
“A day?” King Vincent exclaimed. He looked at Alric, who nodded solemnly. “How can this be?”
“King Fredrick.” The empress addressed the monarch seated to her left. “Please repeat what you told us.”
King Fredrick stood up, brushing the folds from his clothes. He was a squat, balding man with a round belly that pressed the limits of the front of his tunic.
“Not long after the Wintertide holiday—perhaps a few days at most—travelers brought news of trouble in Calis. They told stories of Ghazel hitting the coast in droves. They called it The Flood. Hundreds of thousands of the mongrels stormed the cliffs at Gur Em Dal.”
“Are you saying the elves are in league with the Ghazel?” Cornelius DeLur asked.
The king shook his head. “No, they weren’t warriors. Well, some may have been, but the impression I got was that they too were refugees. They were fleeing and running where they could. The Calian warlords slaughtered many on the eastern coast, but the deluge was so great they could not entirely stem the wave. Within a week, bands of Ghazel were on the border of Galeannon and slipping into the Vilan Hills. We lost all communication with Calis—no more travelers have come out.”
Fredrick took his seat.
“As of this very afternoon,” Sir Breckton said, “we received word that a ship by the name of the Silver Fin was five days out of its port in Kilnar when it saw Wesbaden burning. Beyond it, the captain said he saw another column of smoke rising in the distance, which he guessed to be Dagastan.”
“Why would the elves launch an attack on both the Ghazel and us? Why open two fronts?” Sir Elgar asked.
“It’s likely they don’t consider either the Ghazel or ourselves to be a serious threat,” Breckton told them. “Sources report the elven host is accompanied by scores of dragons who burn everything in their path. Other reports speak of equally disturbing capabilities, such as the ability to control the weather and call down lightning. There are stories of huge monsters that shake the earth, burrowing beasts, lights that blind, and a mist that… devours people.”
“Are these fairy stories you would have us believe, Breckton?” Murthas asked. “Giants, monsters, mists, and elves? Who were these scouts? Old wives?”
This brought chuckles from both Elgar and Gilbert and a smile from Rudolf.
“They were good men, Sir Murthas, and it does not befit you to speak ill of the courageous dead.”
“I grieve for the lives of the men who died,” King Armand said. “But seriously, Breckton, a mist that kills people? You make them out to be the sum of all nightmares, as if every tale of boogeyman, ghost, or wraith spills out of the wood across the Nidwalden. These are only elves, after all. You make them sound like invincible gods that—”
They came with hardly a warning,
thousands both beautiful and terrible;
They came on brilliant white horses
wearing shining gold and shimmering blue;