White Moon Woman

   Another winter battered the small sovereignty of Lysheim. The cold was harsh and unforgiving and once coupled with the wind, brutal. For farmers like Brohm, it had cast a shadow of despair over them. The winter killed off the crops swiftly, leading many to presume the winter being induced by magic or talk of famine or plague. Lysheim's stores for all of it's citizens would not hold the winter and furthermore, the livestock would be slaughtered and used up fairly quickly if it came to that, at least, the ones that weren't killed off otherwise.
   No one wanted to admit it, especially not Sovereign Mistress Lysolde, but Lysheim was under siege.
   Lysheim had not stood in it's place for more than fifty years. Much of the surrounding woodland, weirs and plains were cut clean to use for the construction of the sovereignty and it's keeps and buttresses. What was left was tilled for farming fields and used for lumbr supplies. The construction of Lysheim had forced out those who had lived there for centuries before the men and women came; the elvenkin, living in the shade of the glens and glades amongst the trees that surrounded Lysheim since time immemorial. And it was the elvenkin who were assailing Lysheim.
   Brohm hated them. They had always caused problems for Lysheim, for as long as he could remember. Usually, they were minor, such as the snatching of fruit or vegetable harvests or the kidnapping of cattle or livestock. However, the crimes quickly escalated as more and more trees were felled and more land was tilled; the elves had attacked a lumber caravan and butchered every single man there, leaving their corpses tied about trees as a sign. Sovereign Mistress Lysolde did nothing in retaliation.
   Until, of course, the elevenkin finally attacked.
   They had managed to amass a large attack against Lysheim itself. They arrived in droves, like brown rats, spilling forth from the bowels of the woods. Their arrows were the first herald of their attack; clouds of arrows that rained down upon Lysheim's walls, downing townsfolk in the street with their wicked spikes and poisons. Then came the axes and swords. And their wolfdogs, snarling and baying in the night, tearing out the throats of any who were unfortunate to have survived the arrow shot. That night, Brohm could watch as the elvenkin sacked his home, ripped apart his crops and livestock. But those were temporary. Those were material possessions. The elvenkin took his daughter that night. Her gravestone was one of many in the fields, beneath the broken boughs of a bare and frostbitten yew tree.
   It was that night that made Brohm join up with Lysheim's only standing protective force; Lysolde withdrew all of it's soldiers into her own keep - an act of cowardice that made Brohm seethe. She was at fault for each and every one of the casualties that night and she will be at fault for each and every one to come.
   The elvenkin were to attack again tonight.
   "Brohm!" shouted the militia's sergeant-at-arms, Kellander, in a hoarse and cracked voice.
    It snapped Brohm out of his thoughts. "Aye, sir?"
   "I want ye and some of the other boys to go out to the fields. See how the pits are coming along. And the traps."
   "Aye, sir."
   "B*****d elves won't know what hit them. We'll give them a show. Callen! Straighten your form! Ye call yourself a bowman!" Kellander hawked as he hobbled off.
   Brohm shook his head and headed down the stone steps to the town's entrance and out to the brown fields. Kellander was the one in charge and he had seen too many winters, as many of the men here had. They were either too old to serve in a formal army..... or too young. The desperation that gripped the town had forced any male child old enough to clutch a blade and fight to serve as a militiaman. It was a terrible thing; the elvenkin did not differentiate between man or child.
   The snow crunched beneath the soles of Brohm's boots. Out in the fields, men and women were digging pits to slow the approach of the elves. Some pits were lined with pointed wooden spikes. Others were simply deep. But Brohm was pessimistic about what effect they would have; the elves were simply foot soldiers. They had no horses or mounts, as far as he had seen, so it would only be a matter of time that an elf or two that fell in could climb out. Brohm stood at the opening of a pit being dug by two grim faced youths. In another time, they would have been running through the fields, playing, or perhaps aiding their fathers with the field work.
   Standing there, at the lip of trench, Brohm caught a sound on the wind. It came from the forest and he turned to stare into the shade of the trees. It was a faint sound, a sound of the beating of drums and then a cry - a collective shout of celebratory voices. The sound filled Brohm with dread and hatred. He knew what it meant; the elves were within their glades, celebrating the coming attack. The beat of the drums was slow and sinister, as if they were the footsteps of a lumbering giant, and the cry of the elven voices equally so; shrill and wild, like the hiss of a snake. In another time, it would have filled Brohm with awe and curiosity but today it made the wound on his heart fester maliciously. With a sharp breath, he turned and went back to the town. The trenches did not needing tending; the barricade gate could use some work.
   But no amount of hours or work eased Brohm and the day slipped by feverishly. When the sun finally set, the air became livid with anxiety and fear. The women, girls and younger children were locked into their homes. The men donned chainmail and bucklers and wore swords or spears. Others were mounted on what horses remained, hefting up poleaxes that bore the banner of Lysheim; a bear set against the yellow globe of the sun. Kellander, with his eyeless left socket and wooden leg was at their head, sword gleaming venomously in the moonlight. Brohm was to his left, brandishing an oaken crossbow and hatchet.
   "Men!" Kellander barked. "This is it. The elves are out there in those woods, just waiting for the right turn of the wind. They intend to burn your homes, burn your crops, kill ye wives and children.
   "Those milk drinkers up in Lysolde's castle are not going to aid us. They only care about themselves! We are on our own - but we don't need them! We have all we need here! We will survive this, even should those animals wield the thunder and lightning! And we're going to show those b*****d, godless elves that Lysheim does not fall so easily!"
   The men let out an uplifted battle roar. Brohm joined them but in the back of his mind, he knew that many of these men would not live to see sunrise. They would have need for more than an inspiring talk. And then the air flooded with sound. The beating of the drums commenced once more; louder and much closer this time. The men of Lysheim grew silent with it's approach. The beat and rhythm of the song could now be clearly made out and the shouts that followed were louder, closer, more numerous. It was a feral thing, the pounding and shouting, one of unrestrained bloodlust and savagery. 

   Then the twangs! of bow strings came and the dull pattering of arrows against the wood gates to the town flooded the air. It was as if dozens of fists were knocking upon the front gate all at once. 

   "Steady!" Kellander cried over the ruckus. "Steady!"

   The arrows intensified, erupting into a great battering sound against the gate. Some shot over the wall and would land a far ways off or stab into the ground; solitary miniature pikes in the dirt. 

   "Archers!" Kellander said. "Fire over the walls!"

   The men drew back bowstrings or cocked crossbows and aimed, firing all at once over the front wall of Lysheim. There were no cries of pain or death. Their arrows had struck silence. But the elven arrows were raining closer and closer to the tip of the wall, threatening to rain forth in a flood of wooden and steel-tipped death. 

   "Keep firing!"

   "Sir!" one of the men shouted. "We'll run out of arrows before we'll hit anything!" 

   "The arrows are over the wall!" another cried.

   "Shields!"

   The men raised their shields and were battered by elven arrows. A man dropped here or there. Some scattered in fear, confusion and pain. An arrow grazed Brohm's knee - it stung like fire and ripped his flesh cleanly. He grasped at the arrow, entangled in the chainmail he wore, and pulled it free, gazing at the arrowhead. It was pointed and made of wood, utterly light to enable faster and swifter flight, but the arrowhead! The arrowhead was serrated with small razors of metal, constructed with every intent to rip apart and maim. And what foul poisons had they coated, if any, the arrows with? Some poisonous tree creatures? Brohm shuddered at the possibility and retched at the thought of more of these arrows swooping from the sky to rip apart his men, his friends, his neighbors. 

   Many of the men had survived the first wave of arrows but their shields were made pincushions - unusable. Many were cast down into the arrow specked and bloodied dirt. The banner wrapped around Kellander's poleaxe was torn and ragged in the wind.

   An eerie silence arose from the fields. No arrows shot from bows nor did any drum sound in the night. Then a collective shriek rose from hundreds of throats and the elevenkin reasserted the assault. Arrows once again pelted the walls. Some elves began to climb the ramparts but were quickly shot down. Bodies hit the dirt like crumpled heaps.
   "Open the gate!" Kellander roared. "Riders! To me!"
   The wooden barricade gate wheeled open slowly, arrows falling as if they were leaves on a tree. Kellander spurred his horse forward, poleaxe lowered and pointed straight, sword drawn. The other riders did the same and they surged forth from their position; Lysheim vomited forth brown and white and black horses, full of fury and energy, that charged into the eleven lines, battering aside elves left and right.  Blood sprayed into the air in arcs as the swords and spears and axes of the riders cleaved heads from shoulders or bit into bodies. Brohm himself fired bolts from his crossbow, loaded another, and fired more. Elves scattered in the path of the riders like wolves from a disturbed kill but many were caught in the path and trampled by the hooves of horses.
   The riders carved a wide swath in the assembled elven lines. To Brohm, it was horrifying. He heard the elves' death screams or felt the crunch and snap of bones beneath the feet of his horse. Worst of all, he saw them, the scantily clad people of the woods, with their sunkissed skin and leather or fur trappings. They all had wild and untamed hair, with fierce, slanted eyes and pointed ears. They all appeared faintly vulpine and entirely feral.
   "Onwards! To the forest! We'll kill as many as we can on the way!" Kellander shouted over the clamor and elven snarls. He thrust his poleaxe downwards and caught an elven wolfdog in mid leap. The body slammed into the ground savagely.
    "Sir!" Brohm said. "There will be more there! We aren't ready to assault where they live! They might have defensive fortifications."
    "Like hell! Elves are wolves; all chase and teeth but no defenses. Come!"
   The riders banked to the right and made way for the forest. The elves were less concentrated there, much less so than Brohm would have suspected. He grew uneasy as he and his companions sped towards the beginning line of trees. Within thirty feet of the treeline, did his unease flare - he saw more elves waiting in the shade of the trees, bows drawn!
   "Ket!" he heard the shout come from the trees.
   Before he could speak or even bear his horse to a stop, the elves fired their arrows from their wooded position. The riders at the front of the line, Kellander included, fell. Horses toppled to the left or right. An arrow sliced open Brohm's left side and another struck him on the shoulder, shattering it. He fell from his horse into the snow. His mount fell another few feet later, still charging despite the loss of her rider.
   Brohm heard the crunching of feet in the snow and clamped his eyes shut as hard as he could. He heard several elves pass him as he lay in the snow. What seemed like hours passed before Brohm let his eyes flutter open again. His feeling was returning; his left side and shoulder were burning and screaming in agony. He had a faint sense of touch with his right hand, which was still clutching the wooden stock of his crossbow.
   And then he saw her.
  She rode out from the woods upon the back of a snow white mare, a banner tied about a pole and wedged into the saddle. She was an elf but much paler than the others Brohm had seen, with silver hair that glowed faintly in the moonlight. Her face was sharp and angular, with the slanted eyes of her people and pointed ears. Her eyes were as silver as her hair and seemed to shine from within. She clutched a wickedly curved metal blade and was clad in chain and plate. Two elves, much like the others, were walking to her flanks. The banner tied about the pole had an insignia; a crescent moon and a unicorn.
   "Au gha thula?" she spoke, her voice liquid-like and soothing, in an alien language.
   "Bal," said the elf to her right.
   "Keye hala," the woman nodded, a faint smile about her face. "Bal. Quen la siien."
   The two elves departed her side and made way off in Lysheim's direction. The woman stayed still a moment and stroked the head and mane of her horse. Brohm had never seen a horse such as that before; it was very fit and very healthy, standing tall with an almost regal bearing. Yet, then again, he had never seen an elf atop a horse - or any mount - before. He figured horses or other riding animals would be too large for a practical life within a forest but for some reason, seeing the woman and her steed, he seemed to feel that riding a horse anywhere else was somehow inappropriate. The woman lightly kicked the side of the horse and it bean to plod forward.  
   No doubt, Brohm thought. She must be their leader.
   He watched as she began to ride forward and then felt a great distress. She was much more well equipped than the other elves. She wore armor and used a blade made out of metal, instead of wood lashed with bits and pieces of metal. Undoubtedly, she could and perhaps would kill any human who was before her. Brohm shifted slightly in the snow, taking the crossbow out from beneath him. He raised it somewhat, pointed it at her and squeezed the firing trigger. The bolt there was loosed forth and flew forward, striking the elf in the neck. She jerked violently and was thrown to the ground, landing there with a crunch. The white horse reared back and bolted off towards the forest.
   The white moon woman did not stir from where she fell and darkness took Brohm.
   He was awoken by a startling shake and flared his eyes open. A human face stared back at him, smeared with dirt and blood. It was one of the men in Lysheim's militia.
   "Brohm!" the man exhaled in relief. "You're alive!"
   "Aye," Brohm replied. "Aye..... help me up. I can't move."
   The man bent over and hefted Brohm out of the snow, throwing one of Brohm's arms around his shoulders. There were shrieks and crackling sounds distorting the air.
   "What is going on?"
   "The soldiers..... they came out of Lysolde's castle," the man said. "They're burning the forest."
   Brohm looked up and what he saw confirmed it. Armored figures were moving to and fro about the forest, black silhouettes that appeared tiny before the raging inferno that covered what was a few hours before a forest. Some of the figures clutched torches and tossed them into clusters of trees. The fire swelled and raged and crackled with a sound that seemed evil to Brohm.
   Brohm sighed and sagged slightly, shaking his head. It was a sad thing, he felt. Surely, the elves deserved it, but at what cost? They were trading one atrocity for another. He wondered how many elven children were now being killed or would now be homeless because of their actions. How many elven children would be without parents? He sighed and closed his eyes.
   One atrocity for another.