Desert Thirst Ch.4

• Posted by Borommakot March 23, 2014 - 961 views

  There was a reason Alazir hadn't been included in the battle plan. He was, essentially, a distraction, meant to draw as much attention as possible from the elves. Other than that, he was inconsequential to the Redguard strategy. Even so, Alazir knew what they would do. The elven company outnumbered them two to one, but the Altmer were well out of their element among the barren grasslands and dunes. They tired more quickly during the day, weighed down even by the lightweight armor of their homeland. Their scouts and sentries spread farther to keep the body of the force from wearing itself out in a vain search for Redguard camps or ambushes. Soon enough, the Dominion would learn how ineffective these patrols were, but not before a few more disappeared.

  Already, the elven lookouts clinging to the scant tree cover between sand and dry grass were being smoked out and overwhelmed. The Redguard fanned out to surround and descend on the Altmer camp in a single, coordinated assault. Desert nomads like those in Cyrus' party would earn countless honors during the war for their ability to bring their comrades to within striking range of the enemy, just as they did this day. The Altmer, failing to find level ground in the grasslands, had opted to camp on the very sands at the desert's edge.

  Their captain's tent sat at the height of a broad dune which half circled the bivouac, the remaining tents arranged in the half open bowl beneath it. Cyrus and his men were spread in a broad oval around it, a dozen armed with bows as near as possible to the back of the dune, while the others stretched in a wider arc in front of the camp, hidden by lesser dunes. The command tent was flanked by a pair of guards in glistening, gilded armor, wielding spears. From where he lay secreted, just a few meters from Cyrus, Alazir could see that the attention of both guards was flagging in the heat, and they would occasionally glance longingly towards the shade of the tent. Turning his head towards his comrades, Alazir saw Cyrus nod at the warriors behind him. That was his signal, too, and he lunged forward.

  The twelve warriors behind them rose to a knee and loosed a volley of arrows, two precisely aimed at the guards, four piercing the tent itself, and the remaining six sailing almost lazily over the dune and into the camp. Alazir heard the screams, but could only see for sure that the guards had fallen. A second volley of arrows arched into the camp, this time from all twelve bows, which were left in the sand as the Redguard stormed up the dune.

  Alazir reached the captain's tent well ahead of the others, and heard grunting inside as he slashed through the rear. The elf inside was garbed in ornate armor with fine silver and gold filigree, and a white cloak, now with a broad crimson stain spreading from the arrow buried just between his left shoulder blade and spine. He was half out of his seat, grasping weakly at the hilt of a sword resting against the table in front of him. He half turned to see the intruder, but Alazir turned him right back around as he planted his axe just below the arrow. Before the bone and metal had finished grinding, Alazir raised a booted foot and kicked the elf off his axe and over the table.

  The Altmer tumbled out of the tent and down the dune toward the camp, red smears dotting the dune in his wake. He half rose, pushing himself up with his good arm and getting a sight of his command. Only three had been struck by arrows; two lay still and the third was cradling his leg, the arrowhead protruding from the back of his knee. The rest were in disarray. Attention called in every direction by the war cries of the Reguard bearing down on them, they were loosely forming at the edges of their camp, heedless of the danger in their midst. He tried to call to them, but paused as he felt the sand shift behind him. He turned and found a steel axe filling his vision.

  As the elf captain's cloven face spilled blood in the sand, Alazir finally allowed himself to roar as he charged down the dune into the nearest cluster of soldiers. The first two didn't turn in time and the axe blades plunged into their backs. The axes remained lodged there as the other nearby elves realized the shouting was not from one of their own. Alazir let the bodies drop, planting his foot on one to pull the axe free and cutting himself loose from the leather strap that attached him to the second one.

  He ducked under the incoming elven blade and slashed upward, but the Dominion armor held, cleanly deflecting the blow. He heard a grunt behind him and dodged as far to the side as he could. He heard metal punching through metal, and when he regained his footing, he was pleased to see that where his axe had failed, the spear of the soldier behind him had succeeded, and impaled his comrade. Alazir capitalized on the elf's moment of horrified pause to grab his arm and cleave into his neck. Pushing the gurgling form away from him, he bent and tugged his other axe free of the first body. By now, the other warriors had engaged the elves and the air was ringing with the sound of weapons and armor clashing. Without a pause, Alazir threw himself back into the fray.

  Cyrus and the warriors with him met no resistance from the rear of the camp, and so what had started as a circle collapsed into a broad curve as they fell upon the defenders' backs, sealing the Redguard victory. The battle was over within five minutes.

  Surveying the battlefield, Cyrus found that only three of his warriors had fallen. The disappointment on his face was apparent when he found that Alazir was not one of them. He was seated on an elf's chest, both axes now free from his wrists and buried head first in the sand by his feet.

  "You lead us to victory yet again, Cyrus," he called jovially. Aside from some scuffs on his armor, the only marks he bore were blood stains, none of which appeared to be his. Cyrus ignored the jibe.

  "While I would rather you had died, Alazir, I accept that perhaps you have been spared to further our cause. Tall Papa has preserved you," this elicited a snort from Alazir, "preserved you to protect your homeland."

  "Believe what nonsense you will, Cyrus," Alazir plucked one of the axes from its resting place and began to idly scrub away the blood and sand with the cloak of the dead elf. For a moment it looked like he might continue the thought, but something seemed to occur to him, "How many did we lose?"

  "Ah, so a Redguard heart does beat in you."

  "How many?"

  Cyrus waited a moment to answer, "Kotara was unharmed, I believe is the answer you're looking for. Only three of our own fell."

  Alazir was cleaning the second axe now, and did not answer, and silence hung in the air for a moment, a stark contrast to clamor of mere minutes past. Presently, Cyrus hardened his gaze and spoke again.

  "Nothing will change, Alazir, not for now. When we return to camp, you will still be under watch."

  There was more there, unsaid. A begrudged chance at redemption, which they both knew would go ignored. Rising from the elf's chest, Alazir slipped the axes into his sash, "Well, I at least expect you'll be more considerate of the rope this time."