stories of an old war dog can while away a mile or three.”
Marcus dutifully produced a wineskin, which the old warrior-priest took.
He opened it and expertly sprayed a stream of Valerian Primus into his mouth without wasting a single drop or further soiling the sweat-stained tunic that he wore open down to his chest. His greying brows rose with surprise. “That’s a good vintage you’ve got there, lad. Yours, I’m thinking.”
“It’s of the House, yes.” Marcus nodded in respectful acknowledgment. “Please keep it, Blessed Sir, as a small measure of the regard House Valerius bears for the noble Order of St. Michael.”
“‘The Order,’ the man said,” Zephanus pointed out as he leaned over his horse’s neck with a hand extended. “That means me too. Let me try it!”
“I couldn’t allow that, little brother, not in good conscience. It’s far too early in the day to risk sun and grape addling such a young pate as yours.” He saluted Marcus with the skin, gave it one more healthy squeeze, then twisted the carved spout closed and slung it off the horn of his saddle. “Now, as to your question, can either of you tell me the defining characteristic of an elven army?”
“Archery,” Zephanus answered. He didn’t seem inclined to complain about being denied a taste of House Valerius’s best. “Their archers have far greater range with their longbows than we can match with our slings and spears, which makes it hard to come to grips with them.”
“That’s true, to be sure, but it’s something more basic than that.”
Marcus racked his brain, trying to think of every military history he’d ever read that mentioned the elves. The
Taktika of Leus
contained several accounts of famous battles with them, including Ardus Wald, Bremulon, and Tarphoris, but elven involvement aside, there wasn’t a single similarity between the three battles that he could think of. An ambush, a battlefield, and a city defense.
As Zephanus had said, it was the superiority of their deadly longbows that sprang first to Marcus’s mind. The historical accounts were no doubt exaggerated, but there had to be an element of metaphorical truth, at least, in the descriptions of how their arrows could darken the sky.
If it wasn’t the archers, what could it be? Their dark magic was superlative, but even the men of Savonderum used magecraft in battle, the peril to their souls notwitstanding. Would an experienced veteran like Serranus find it worthy of such particular note?
Then another thought occurred to him as he happened to glance in the dwarf’s direction. It struck him that the two old warriors might be evenly matched for who bore more scars.
“Is it that they have no infantry?” he suggested.
“Of course they have infantry,” Zephanus said dismissively. “Most of their archers are on foot, and even their light cavalry usually dismount when they fight at range.”
“No, I mean they don’t have any heavy infantry. We do, the Savonders do, the dwarves do, the orcs do, even the goblins do, if you think of how the orcs use them as auxiliaries on the wings when they’re not mounted. The Troll King doesn’t have anything but heavy infantry. But the only elves that wear proper armor are their lancers, and they’re mounted.”
“Aye, General Valerius!” Serranus barked in response. The grizzled warrior thumped his chest in what was obviously a sardonic salute, but his eyes were sparkling with good humor. “The young scholar has it in one, little brother, for all that he’s never blooded a sword. And that, my dear young novices, tells you very nearly all you might possibly need to know about the elves—their cowardly tactics, their pernicious culture, their spiritual enervation, and their ultimate fate. More importantly, it also tells you how to kill them.”
“It does?” Marcus looked at Zephanus, but the younger Michaeline clearly had no idea what Serranus was telling them either. If the two elves riding far
Marcus dutifully produced a wineskin, which the old warrior-priest took.
He opened it and expertly sprayed a stream of Valerian Primus into his mouth without wasting a single drop or further soiling the sweat-stained tunic that he wore open down to his chest. His greying brows rose with surprise. “That’s a good vintage you’ve got there, lad. Yours, I’m thinking.”
“It’s of the House, yes.” Marcus nodded in respectful acknowledgment. “Please keep it, Blessed Sir, as a small measure of the regard House Valerius bears for the noble Order of St. Michael.”
“‘The Order,’ the man said,” Zephanus pointed out as he leaned over his horse’s neck with a hand extended. “That means me too. Let me try it!”
“I couldn’t allow that, little brother, not in good conscience. It’s far too early in the day to risk sun and grape addling such a young pate as yours.” He saluted Marcus with the skin, gave it one more healthy squeeze, then twisted the carved spout closed and slung it off the horn of his saddle. “Now, as to your question, can either of you tell me the defining characteristic of an elven army?”
“Archery,” Zephanus answered. He didn’t seem inclined to complain about being denied a taste of House Valerius’s best. “Their archers have far greater range with their longbows than we can match with our slings and spears, which makes it hard to come to grips with them.”
“That’s true, to be sure, but it’s something more basic than that.”
Marcus racked his brain, trying to think of every military history he’d ever read that mentioned the elves. The
Taktika of Leus
contained several accounts of famous battles with them, including Ardus Wald, Bremulon, and Tarphoris, but elven involvement aside, there wasn’t a single similarity between the three battles that he could think of. An ambush, a battlefield, and a city defense.
As Zephanus had said, it was the superiority of their deadly longbows that sprang first to Marcus’s mind. The historical accounts were no doubt exaggerated, but there had to be an element of metaphorical truth, at least, in the descriptions of how their arrows could darken the sky.
If it wasn’t the archers, what could it be? Their dark magic was superlative, but even the men of Savonderum used magecraft in battle, the peril to their souls notwitstanding. Would an experienced veteran like Serranus find it worthy of such particular note?
Then another thought occurred to him as he happened to glance in the dwarf’s direction. It struck him that the two old warriors might be evenly matched for who bore more scars.
“Is it that they have no infantry?” he suggested.
“Of course they have infantry,” Zephanus said dismissively. “Most of their archers are on foot, and even their light cavalry usually dismount when they fight at range.”
“No, I mean they don’t have any heavy infantry. We do, the Savonders do, the dwarves do, the orcs do, even the goblins do, if you think of how the orcs use them as auxiliaries on the wings when they’re not mounted. The Troll King doesn’t have anything but heavy infantry. But the only elves that wear proper armor are their lancers, and they’re mounted.”
“Aye, General Valerius!” Serranus barked in response. The grizzled warrior thumped his chest in what was obviously a sardonic salute, but his eyes were sparkling with good humor. “The young scholar has it in one, little brother, for all that he’s never blooded a sword. And that, my dear young novices, tells you very nearly all you might possibly need to know about the elves—their cowardly tactics, their pernicious culture, their spiritual enervation, and their ultimate fate. More importantly, it also tells you how to kill them.”
“It does?” Marcus looked at Zephanus, but the younger Michaeline clearly had no idea what Serranus was telling them either. If the two elves riding far
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