Lynesse

To Battle - Part 2

“….We need to get around their barricade and into the crater or we’re not going to get anywhere. We’re still short on supplies from the Siege,” Lyn tuned back in, listening to the Elven scout give his report to the temporary war council that had been set up with a few of the Army officers and a couple of the Mercenary captains. She shifted her weight in the canvas chair that had been provided and rested her chin on her knuckles as he continued, “If we don’t stress to our leaders that we need a joint operation with the Alliance we aren’t going to–”
 

“We can try, but don’t expect much,” Imriel intoned, seemingly just as bored as she was, “Thank you, Scout Springvale. Sunwell guide you.” Scout Springvale saluted and took the dismissal for what it was, pushing the flap of the heavy canvas that made up the council tent aside. Imriel beckoned her over to the table that housed the battle map; He’d known Ysirien and that had been enough for him to invite her into the session. Lyn could tell he had other motives, but it would be weird if he didn’t. 

She unfolded herself from her chair with a sigh and moved to stand next to a few people who’d probably be dead the longer this whole mess dragged on. Imriel started to ask one of the Horde Army captains what his thoughts were on directing some of the Mercenary forces over the ridge rather than with the troops that were stationed down in the basin when the dull roaring started. They’d all heard it down where the fighting was going on, it was a very common sound; the iron, spiked cannon balls made an awful racket as the wind rushed over their serrated hulls. It was unearthly and distinctive. They all scrambled for cover out of habit, ducking under a table or chair that wouldn’t do anything to save them if it landed on the tent. 

The whole plateau shook violently as the projectile crashed into the dirt and rolled, the clattering of the wooden troop positions on the map drowned out by the screaming and grinding of metal and people nearby. This tent was intact, but it was obvious that many others weren’t going to be. She scrambled out from under the table and grabbed the axe she’d left near the front of the tent. A cursory glance back to the other occupants proved they were alright, if rattled. She snarled, “Imriel, Zal’jir, and Rinniel with me. You two,” she pointed at the representatives from the healing tents, she hadn’t caught their names, “Start helping the wounded. Figure out what blocks of the camp were destroyed.”

She didn’t bother to wait to hear if they were going to follow, pushing out of the tent with her axe ready. It had carved a scar into the red dirt and clay as it had rolled, and the spikes still glowed red hot from where they’d scraped against the interior of the cannon. Lyn could already tell that her tent had been right in the path and had likely been completely destroyed. She didn’t have time to freeze up. She’d be upset about her things and Pi’ir, poor Pi’ir, later. Imriel and the others fell into step behind her as the large grate sealing the interior of the cannonball opened to release the Orcish payload inside. Sometimes they were killed in transit but usually two or three would pour out and immediately start trying to kill anything nearby. It was innovative. It was brutal. 

They dispatched the enemies easily enough; They really weren’t a match for heavily armed, well prepared mercenaries. Cleaning up and replenishing the destroyed supplies was going to be the difficult part. Twenty tents had been completely obliterated. Fifteen had incidental damage that rendered them unusable. A few had been killed in the path, but most of the fighters had been out. Lyn mumbled through a quiet prayer to the Light in thanks that Kelthius had gone back to Silvermoon like she’d asked as she gathered up a few bloody violet and pink feathers, her heart heavy as a stone. The little, stunted Dragonhawk had been her companion for years. How dare she bring him here? He would’ve been fine at the apartment. She cursed herself for being so sentimental, for not wanting to leave him behind. 

The quiet, padding steps of Zal’jir’s panther made her ears pin slightly as she stood back up, cocking her head to better see Imriel’s Trollish companion. He held up a hand before narrowing his golden eyes at the bright feathers between her fingers, “Dragonhawk. Ya pet?”

She didn’t say anything for a few moments before shaking her head, “My friend.”

“Tsss,“ he hissed in sympathy, "With the Loa now. Better den here. I’ll ask da spirits ta look afta him. He died in battle, it is earned,” he said as he threaded his thick, blue digits through his bright red mohawk. “Imriel thinks ya strong. Wants ya as member of Golden Thorn, like him. Under him, mebbe. Ya deserved ta know. But… He did ask ta get alla ya who lost today time ta restock. Bring a little extra thistle back for Zal’jir, eh?” He smiled around his tusks. 

“I’ll do what I can for you, ZJ. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll be back on Tuesday,” she didn’t smile, but she offered him one of the feathers, “Tell the Loa he was brave, and fierce.” 

Zal’jir laughed, taking the feather and threading it into one of his hanging braids, “I’ll do, Girlie. I’ll do.”