The Forever Man - Book 1: Pulse Read online

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  Commander Ammon Set-Bat of the Fair-folk stood outside his flag tent and looked up at the sky. It was dull. Blue and ugly without its usual wash of psychedelic colors pulsing through it. There was barely the vaguest hint of the Life-Light at all. Maybe a tiny coruscation on the horizon. But then that may have been wishful thinking, admitted Ammon to himself. For without the Life-Light in the skies the Fair-Folk had nowhere to draw their power from. Their magik was useless without the powers of the lights. Weak and insubstantial. If they were to survive then they would need to follow the Life-Light to another place where it was strong and enduring. And there they would prosper. The Fair-Folk had done this before, many, many times throughout their ancient history. Where the Life-Light went, so did they.

  But in all fairness, said Ammon to himself, there was little chance of that happening and, even if it did, there was even less chance that his people would survive the ongoing war that they were in. Perhaps this was the end.

  No! He took a deep breath, brought his attention back to the moment and continued to survey the valley below. He had no use for a telescope as he had long since perfected the art of ‘Farlooking’ and could identify a species of butterfly at a distance of over half a league.

  As the commander of the army, Ammon was a member of the Council of Twelve that ruled the Fair-folk and their minions and, at the moment, his army had been stretched across the narrow part of the valley of Southee. On each side of the Vale rose the Sethanon Mountains, a natural redoubt between the High Kingdom and the Midlands. This valley was the only practical way through. So here he had placed his troops.

  Five battalions of Orcs totaling one hundred thousand strong. Six thousand heavy armored Trolls with their twenty-foot pikes and massive shields. The Trolls would provide a wall of armor that he hoped the enemy would break against like a tide against a cliff. To the rear, forty thousand Goblin archers, their small-recurved bows already strung, bundles of arrows at their feet.

  And finally, the Constructs, noticeable by their shining white tunics and slow behavior. These ever-smiling, pale skinned creations of the Fair-Folk would carry water, bandages and extra arrows to the combatants. Afterwards, if there was an afterwards, they would be used by the Orcs and goblins for their more…comely offerings.

  There were no Fair-Folk in the battle formation. Their talents lay in ruling, creating, commanding, controlling. Not for them the savage cruelty of front line combat. And even if they had wanted to participate in a more physical way they could not have made much difference.

  The males stood around four feet tall, hairless smooth gray skin, no discernable musculature, massive dome shaped heads, no perceivable ears or nostrils, small mouths and large black eyes. Their bodies merely an ambulatory system for their extraordinarily advanced brains. Brains capable of controlling those lesser than them, capable of psychokinesis, pyrokinesis and, most importantly, harnessing the power of the ‘Life-Light’. Although, as Ammon had been musing, in recent years, the Life-Light had been fading, its power waning. And with it, the power of the Fair-Folk.

  The female of the species was seldom seen. Smaller and much lighter skinned than the male with smaller elongated heads. They were kept indoors, away from the sunlight and, when they did wish to venture outside they were transported in curtained palanquins or sedan chairs carried by two battle Orcs.

  Like the males, the females lived for well over three hundred years, during which time they usually laid three or four embryonic sacs. These sacs were fertilized by the males who squatted over them and sprayed them with their seed. The Fair-folks pleasures were far more esoteric than mere sex, something that they deemed suitable only for the lower ranks of beings.

  Today marked the end of a year of continual war. A year of constant, bitter failure as, yard-by-yard, the alien Elvish had conquered the Fair-Folk’s kingdom. Forcing them back by virtue of numbers. They were no more than competent combatants, tall and almost unbelievably slim with heart shaped faces, flaxen hair as fine as cobwebs and small pointed teeth. But their numbers combined with their hive-mentality made them a formidable foe. Their battle strategies were poor but, due to the fact that their minds were linked via the hive-queen, their reactions as a group were uncanny. Breaches in their lines were filled immediately, replacements always arrived at the perfect moment and supplies were always delivered at the exact time needed. They never panicked; they seldom fell for any subterfuge or ruse and their morale stayed at a constant high as they drew strength from the queen.

  Ammon exerted his Far-looking powers and saw them coming. A murky amorphous mass of warriors, dressed in their customary dark green. Moving as one, like a shoal of fish, or flock of birds.

  They had first appeared, a year before, in the Lower kingdoms. There had been a period of solar upheaval, days had shortened, nights had grown colder and the constant sky glow of the Life-Light had ceased for almost six days.

  Then a hole had opened. A literal doorway, albeit a huge one, between the kingdoms and the godforsaken place that the Elvish came from. They had poured through the gap, taking the majority of the coastal towns of the Eastern Lower Kingdom in a matter of days.

  Ammon had assembled his troops and force-marched from the highlands to meet the host on the Midland plains. He had quickly learned not to fight the Elven hordes in huge set battles. Their numbers were too large and their hive-minds ensured that their mass maneuvers were always perfect.

  So instead he had fought a hundred smaller battles, always picking his ground with great care. Mountain passes, river confluences, forests. Anything to stop his dwindling army from being enveloped by the vast numbers of enemy.

  And, as the year had gone by, the rainbow flickering of the Life-Light had grown dimmer in the skies. In the time before it used to coruscate across the heavens, a constant surge of color, like lamp oil spilt on water, bringing with it the power that the Fair-Folk used to drive their magiks. The raw power of the universe. The power of the Life-Light.

  He sensed rather than heard Seth Hil-Nu walk up to his side. Seth was the paramount mage of the Fair-Folk and he, more than any others, had been diminished by the dying of the Life-Light, his magnificent powers waning day by day. In the times before, when the Life-Light was strong, he could have conjured up a raft of fireballs that would have burned the Elven host from the valley. He could have brought the mountains down on them or caused a storm of lightning to blast them from existence. Now he was simply a source of wisdom, capable of the odd small magik if the circumstances were right.

  ‘Well seen, Seth,’ greeted the commander.

  ‘Well met, Ammon. How long before battle commences?’

  ‘Mere minutes, mage. Mere minutes. Pray tell, can you amplify my voice so that the troops can hear me? I used to be able to do it myself when the Life-Light was strong, but now it is a skill that escapes me.’

  ‘Sad are the times when you have to ask if I can still perform such tiny magiks,’ answered Seth. ‘But yes, I can make you heard. Not through amplification, but they will hear what you say.’

  ‘Thank you, mage.’

  The Elven swarm continued to pour into the valley, running on fast lithe feet. Drawing closer.

  Ammon waited and then, ‘Archers, make ready.’

  The four thousand goblins each lent forward, picked up a dozen or so arrows and planted them, head down, in the turf in front of them, ready for rapid fire.

  ‘Archers, string.’

  Four thousand arrows were notched.

  ‘Draw.’

  Four thousand bow strings thrummed with tension as the archers drew to full draw and held.

  ‘Rapid fire, now!’

  The average competent goblin archer can unleash an arrow every three seconds. The flight time from archer to target was approximately nine seconds. This meant that, by the time the first four thousand arrows struck, there were already another twelve thousand in the air. Like a swarm of steel tipped locusts, blotting out the sun.

  The
y struck the Elvin ranks with a sound like hail hitting a cornfield. A thudding and tearing as they punctured flesh and bone. But still the horde ran on, climbing over their dead as they did so.

  Ammon waited until the foes were almost too close for the archers to safely fire at without risking hitting their own troops.

  ‘Archers – cease-fire. Trolls, prepare.’

  The six hundred Trolls stepped forward, each standing over twelve foot tall, weighing in at over nine hundred pounds, ten foot high shield of steel and twenty foot long pikes with massive broad blades. They locked their shields together with a massive clash of steel that reverberated around the valley. Pikes were held over the interlocked shields.

  ‘Trolls, advance.’

  Over five hundred tons of heavily armored muscle shambled forward. Trolls did not, could not, run. Instead they shuffled, feet never leaving the ground. As a result they were always solidly grounded. In an advance such as this, nothing could stand before them.

  A solid wall of sound rolled across the valley as the Trolls crashed into the lightweight Elves. Pikes rose and fell, slicing, cutting, destroying. And slowly, ever so slowly, the Elven hoard was pushed back.

  But not for long. The sheer weight of numbers eventually slowed the advance and then halted it.

  Ammon was ready for this.

  ‘Orcs, support the advance.’

  The twenty five thousand Orcs ran forward. Not unsheathing their battle-axes. Instead they simply ran into the Trolls, dropping their shoulders and pushing. The Trolls pikes continued to rise and fall, slashing a pathway through the horde. The extra power of the Orcs continued the advance, driving the Elves back, crushing them underfoot, compacting them together so tightly that they could no longer wield their weapons.

  Then, with the timing brought from years of experience, Ammon spoke his next command.

  ‘Orcs, unsheath your weapons. Trolls, unlock your shields. Orcs – attack.’

  Twenty five thousand Orc voices bayed their battle cry as they ran forward through the ranks of the Trolls and into the massed Elves, two-handed battle-swords swinging with abandon, the battle madness on them all.

  ‘Kamateh,’ they cried out their war cry as they hacked and killed.

  ‘Kamateh, kill, kill them all!’

  The Elven horde broke and ran. Darting away like a massive shoal of bait fish before a pack of sharks.

  And commander Ammon gave his last order. ‘Archers, harry them. Fire at will.’

  The Elves retreated under a rain of steel tipped death.

  Chapter 2