Unlikely Allies - by Craig Butler
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    Galadorn gazed across the grassy field to the dark forest a mile or so away.  A light summer breeze was in the air, and only a few clouds drifted aimlessly in the clear blue sky.  The grass of the downs and the field that would soon see the thunder of battle was waist-high in places, and a clever hunter could crawl through it unobserved.  He almost wish he was facing an enemy subtle enough to try it.
 
    Far off, under the shadow of the trees of the wood, the sounds of drums were coming.  They had been for some time, though he doubted his companion, a mere Man, could hear it yet.  “Legate, are your men ready?” he asked.
 
    The Man beside him, short and gruff, and trying to appear impressive on his horse, nodded.  “The Legion is prepared, Elf-Lord.”
 
    Galadorn scanned the vale below where the Marrian soldiers stood impatiently in rows, some leaning on their shields, some starting off into space.  He had tried to impart to them the gravity of the battle ahead, but Men seemed always impatient, for beings who could not expect to see more than seventy years at best.  This lot in particular was quite stubborn and proud.

     “And what of your force?” the Legate asked.  “How long will they rest at ease behind these hills?”
 
    Galadorn checked his temper.  The man had no concept of tactics, of outwitting your opponent.  His plan had been to array all of their forces in the open and wait for the assault.  “When we are needed, we will come,” he explained curtly, as though talking to a child.  “The enemy will not suspect our presence and will be swept away before us.  All you need do is draw them out of the forest and keep them busy.”
 
    “I see your elves playing with their bow-strings,” the Man continued, quite disrespectfully, “a club would serve them better in this battle.”
 
    This time he could barely restrain himself.  “Concern yourself with your part, Legate.  The High Elves’ power in combat is not to be judged by such as you.”  His mind boggled at why the Council had sent him here to fight alongside such Men.  Someone would have to answer for it.
 
    The Marrian smiled, studying the forest as though the battle would be fought by him alone.  “Can you hear them yet?”
 
    “Of course I can,” Galadorn snapped.  In fact, the sound of marching feet had been growing steadily louder.  “They will be upon us soon enough.  Perhaps you should see that your men do not fall asleep waiting for them.”

     “My men know their work,” the man replied, face impassive as ever.  “But you would do well to trust your eyes as well as your ears – here they come!”
 
    Galadorn chided himself for letting the human’s impudence distract him.  Sure enough, on the edge of the wood, row upon row of gray figures were emerging from the shadow of the wood, swords gleaming dully, skinless faces starting blankly.  Despite his endless years of facing such enemies and worse, Galadorn could not help but feel a twinge of fear deep within his Elvish heart.  The host marching across that field to meet them contained not one living soul.
 
    “Your attention would be better spent rousing your soldiers,” the Legate continued in the same even tone.  “Staring at them with your mouth agape will hardly dispel them.  I hope to see you on the field.”  And without another word, he galloped off toward his Legion.  Galadorn grimaced.  Someone would need to teach that man how to address his betters.  But he was right about one thing – the battle was upon them.  Turning, he shouted to his Elvish host: “Get in formation!  Swords at the ready!  I’ll not let those human dogs think they can win this alone!  Forward on my command