Daramlhoardd’s War

Three weeks of constant hair pulling and now at last he was ready for war.
The day would soon dawn that would put an end to the feud between him and his brother. If all his knights, knights at arms and archers had to die, then so be it. Whatever the cost in blood, the elf lord was willing to pay, no, he was more than willing to pay.
The field was full of the cavalry, of mighty war machines. There were trebuchets, ballista in there hundreds, oangers, torsion machines, tall siege towers and a large battering ram. Wheels were greased with fat from a thousand dwarves that had been caught sneaking across his domain to join his brother. They had been rendered alive.
Daramlhoardd sat tall, straight and stiff on his great black horse, War Thunder. The coat shone like polished ebony in the sun. The rubies, diamonds and sapphires set into the white saddle leather sparkled when ever morning rays caught them. He looked at Alabar, his second in command and nodded his head. His heart overflowed with a certainty that he would win. Besides his war machines he had a new weapon, one that would crush the walls of Gladelhome into rubble.  He pictured the head of his brother and that of his ex wife on pikes above his castle gates.
“Move out,” Alabar’s order rang out in the clear morning air.
The great host, eighty thousand strong moved out to war. Daramlhoardd and Alabar were in the lead. They were followed by twenty thousand well horsed knights. Forty thousand knights at arms were next. Behind them were the archers, there were twenty thousand of these. Bringing up the rear were the engines of war, the camp followers and the wagons carrying all the gear. Wagon after wagon was full of large stones, arrows, lances, spare bows, tents and food.

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