Now, galloping like demons, the Centaurs moved into Doran’s suggested formation. He had described it as a spear to them, for they charged their enemy only four abreast but hundreds deep. Like a battering ram, they approached the Reavers in the centre of their mass, hollering war cries of their own.
But the spear did not penetrate.
At the last possible second, the Centaurs split their force down the middle, veering off to the east and west. With great speed, they charged along the outer edge of the Reavers and lashed out with all manner of weaponry. There was nothing the Reavers could do against such thunderous might. Here and there, they succeeded in spearing a Centaur, but their numbers were taking the larger toll. It also pushed the dark army together in a bid to back away from the encompassing attack.
Now for the elves.
Faylen, Galanör, and Aenwyn led the immortals through fire and smoke, crossing into the catapults’ threshold. From atop their horses, the elves released salvo after salvo of both arrows and spells. No aim was required to hit the Reavers, and those that were struck in the head dropped to the ground, out of the fight for evermore.
Leading by example, Faylen erected the first shield of magic over her head. The rest of her force quickly followed suit and did the same, just in time for the first wave of ballista bolts and the second wave from the catapults. Had the dwarves gone ahead of them, their dead would litter The Moonlit Plains. Doran’s plan, however, played to their strengths and the elves remained safe beneath their magic.
Still charging from the rear of their attack, the son of Dorain could see their shields flaring and flashing as they took the punishment from the aerial assault. It wasn’t a perfect strategy though and several elves were caught in the blast waves from burning projectiles. Others were flung from their mount when the animal was speared by a ballista bolt.
Time was against the dwarves now. The elves had taken the brunt of the siege weapons, but the Reavers would reload them all and fire again soon. They had to cross the field and get stuck in before that happened. Of course, before that, the elves had to breach their front line.
As the Centaurs disappeared around the edges of the Reavers, Faylen, Galanör, and Aenwyn were the first to have their mounts leap into the fray. Galanör’s blades swung out, Faylen expelled destructive magic, and Aenwyn let fly her arrows. Then came the rest, their force aimed at a single point in the Reavers’ line. Much like one of Aenwyn’s arrows, the elves shot through their enemy, almost penetrating to the heart.
Now there was nothing between the children of the mountain and their already occupied foe. With a few hundred feet left to charge, the catapults hurled their load into the heavens. They would make no difference now - the dwarves were too close and too spread out to give anything to the catapults’ range. Doran cheered with righteous glee before the inevitable and violent clash.
And violent it was.
Armoured Warhogs collided with armoured fiends from east to west in an ear-splitting crash. Russell alone performed an almighty leap that cast him deeper into the Reavers’ ranks, a place where his battle hammer could come down with abandon.
Doran was oblivious to all but those directly in his path. He let Pig deal out as much damage as it could, the Warhog’s momentum more than enough to crush a dozen Reavers before the dwarf dismounted and added his swing to the clamour. By then, he had separated Andaljor into axe and hammer, making him just about the most dangerous thing on two legs.
The hammer swung out to the left and the axe chopped down on the right, every blow spelling the end of another Reaver. And behind him, dwarf after dwarf added their mettle to the melee, pouring into the battle with a war cry on their lips and steel in their hearts.
Somewhere in the heavens, Grarfath was laughing.
Doran felt his ancestor’s hammer crush helmets and skulls while the axe hacked through limbs and severed heads. It wasn’t long before he was forced to step over the undead creatures to reach his next foe. As he moved to slay the Reaver in his sights, a Warhog barrelled into it and rammed the fiend into those behind. He was about to cheer the rider when he realised the dwarven warrior was dead, his body savagely impaled by five swords. Doran liked to imagine that he had fought until that fifth and final sword.
With a growl rising from deep inside his chest, the son of Dorain charged in behind the rogue Warhog and dropped his hammer down on the Reavers before they could recover. One of them, unfazed by their shattered legs, pushed up on one hand and thrust a spear towards the War Mason. The dwarf dodged left but the edge of the spear tip cut a neat line up the side of his cheek. Doran was barely aware of the pain. He batted the spear aside with his hammer and sank his axe deep into the Reaver’s head.
Like sharks catching a scent of blood, a group of Reavers cut through a pair of dwarves and elves to reach Doran. Their swords were slick with the blood of his kin, while his own weapons were crusted with the rotten debris of theirs.
“Come on then!” he goaded, banging axe and hammer together. “I’ve got more than enough steel for all o’ ye!”
The dead had no response but to advance on the dwarf, their hideous faces concealed behind their helmets. Gritting his teeth, Doran determined to break them all until their insides were squeezed through the eye slits. At least he would have done were it not for Galanör and his wicked blades. The elven ranger emerged from the battle like a dancer on a grand stage. Stormweaver slashed high and
