[b]MARCHING ORDERS; CAMP - 17TH DAY, 20TH HOUR[/b]

The baggage line meandered through the forest like the tail of some ungodly serpent, plodding in the wake of those before it. It was as dark closed in one night in that wooded death trap that Banaari’s acute sense of self-preservation began to kick in. Out in the open, organised battle lines and a hardy front of spears and arrow fodder tended to leave one in a good position if they dragged their feet a little. In other words, the baggage train was the safest place he could be, out in the open at least. But things had changed, battle lines were a thing of the past as the army haphazardly ploughed through the forest paths, and suddenly being sequestered between green boys, camp followers and a fair number of mules no longer felt like such a good idea. When the attacks came, and they would, the men up front would at least have hardy men at their side. But back here, with only a basic guard that hadn’t been properly reinforced, praise be the leaders of this army, things weren’t looking so good.

So, Banaari had done what was only natural. He had jumped on his mule, and annoyed a third of the army by slowly pushing his way forward. He didn’t want to go too far, somewhere in the middle would probably serve his purposes just fine, and that was roughly where he stopped. When the men around him started looking a bit meaner, carrying a little more steel at their hip and over their chests, that was when he was satisfied. He slid off his mule, wincing as his old bones cracked, and made a curt introduction. Little did he know, he had run into quite the assortment of warriors and magi, but then if he had not would his story have been worth telling?

His eyes glanced over one of the dark type in the camp, devoted to their gods, perhaps one of death considering his activity. He was casting bones to tell the future. The Elf’s rational mind turned away from such nonsense, better to look outside if you want to guess the weather, or so he thought. He turned to anyone who seemed to be listening as they sat dicing and cooking and watching the fire and nodded his head, his wrinkled Elven face caught in the orange glow.

“I’m Banaari, thought ta’ stand with wit’ othas for a while if ye be catchin’ me mind.” He walked over to the group by the fire. “Don’t suppose you’d be willin’ ta part wit’ some cheese would’ye?”

[b]M A R C H I N G  O R D E R S ;  R O A D  T O  N U B I N A - 1 9 T H   D A Y ,  D U S K[/b]

The forest was as sick as the world in the parts the army marched to, and Banaari was acutely aware of it. Never one of the most ‘elfy’ of elves, even he was oddly affected by the twisted roots and ugly trunks that marked the blighted land. He wondered if the forest would ever heal itself. Perhaps if they were lucky enough to survive this mad campaign and reach Aith Anur they could seal it again, and maybe then the world would remember what it was like not to be slowly dying from corruption. That would be quite something. Old memories of the time before Aith Anur’s fall flittered through the Elf’s tired mind, memories of the city itself, shining and beautiful beyond belief, they stirred his heart, steeling him. 

Just in time too, as the call rang out. Ambush, it was always destined to happen, but now that it had come it was time to work out if he was likely to live through it. One weary glance across the forest, where the dead pulled themselves from shallow graves, and the Elf was inclined to think that perhaps this could be the end. They had such numbers, and surprise was on their side. His hand clutched at the reins of his mule as it began to shy away from him. He looked over the top of the beast, holding it as cover from arrows as they began to spit into camp.

“Might be wantin’ ta take cover lads.” His old voice creaked, barely a fraction of the old bellow of command he used to be able to muster in that warning. 

Then, the first of the sprinters were upon them. Ghouls, rending and biting, skittering quickly past arrow fire. Many still went down, there were enough wild elves scattered around to make pin-cushions out of even the fastest of undead, but some still got through, diving over pike lines and hammering at shields. Lucky then that their own speed betrayed them, as they reached the lines unsupported and each faced two or three men, stabbing them into the earth with frightful thrusts, hammering them into nothingness with that wild cut that signified a betrayal of one’s training and the reversion back to primitives. No matter, it got the job done. Banaari hunkered behind his mule as the fight raged on, watching the dark one cast his spells, dragging the undead into a writhing mass. Perhaps someone with the skill could exploit their immobility, he had seen magi cast fire from their fingertips before, and figured that would probably be useful now. 

Then, the old fear gripped him. What ability he had to look on the fight was hindered by a near uncontrollable shaking, his fingers loosened, he probably would have pissed himself if he needed to go. The shambling dead had broken through the front line and approached the main group, some grabbing for the dark one, probably even in their state recognising the threat he posed. He conjured more darkness to slay them, but alone he would be overwhelmed. The Elf felt a tug at the reins, the mule’s eyes were wild with fear as the shambling dead reached it, bony hands clutched at its fur, scored vicious grooves down its flanks. It kicked out wildly, and Banaari pulled it back from the creatures, narrowly avoiding being crushed himself by a heavy hoof. 

“Come on ye dim witted beast!” He yelled, panic gripped his voice as he yanked at the reins, and out of instinct his hand went to the hilt of the at his back. He knew he couldn’t draw it, even if he wanted to, but for a moment the convulsions let him feel the handle of a weapon he knew so well, and focused him. He pulled one more time, and the mule kicked away the two undead clawing at it before skipping clear, two armed warriors filling the gap and engaging the creatures. Banaari’s breath came in ragged gasps as he looked on.