Magic vs Science

The steady beat of drums is fading, drowned out by more and more of the hateful droning of orc and gnomish war horns. Your blade flicks out, finding a gap in the plate armour of your human foe, who collapses with a shriek, before whipping to your left in a two handed swing to rip the throat from an orcish berzerker closing with you. A light spray of blood splashes your already fouled breastplate, but you barely notice as you use the brief respite to glance worriedly towards where the last echoes of drum died away. Your heart sinks as you realise your failing vanguard is cut off from the main army, an army which is in retreat no doubt. The ferocity of this ambush has taken everyone by surprise, as have the shrewd tactics.

It seems but days since reports came from scouts of forces building across the border. Rumours of some kind of unholy alliance between the unclean races and vague reports of old fortifications manned once more. In fact it has been weeks.. three alone since your best scouts spotted earthworks, the smoke of manufacture, strange metal craft.. and then the scouts stopped returning. Your best scrying has been unclear and impossible to read accurately. What was clear was that something was coming and that your forces needed to be ready. It had been long years since a war between the races.. it now seemed inevitable.

The first sign that forces beyond your ken were in motion were those metal beetles which appeared in the sky. Goddess knows what their purpose was but they began to appear in numbers, perhaps a dozen flitting through the sky with that damned whirring sound they make. Several arrows loosed, one clattering off the gold and silver coloured carapace with little effect beyond a dip in flight. You quickly halted more wasted arrows, as it seemed the dove-sized devices were not engines of war. But if not that.. then what?

There was no time for more answers as your hundred strong of infantry and bowmen, backed by a dozen heavy horse, wound their way through shallow valleys toward the border. It would have been nice to believe the winding route, well in advance of the main columns of elven army, would be a surprise as you reached the borderlands. But something in the pit of your stomach told you that your coming was expected. And so it proved.. enemy boiling from hidden caves within the exposed rock of the surrounding hills, or from tunnels beneath the earth itself. First a horde of orcs howling from the east, and then several ranks of crossbowmen firing into your forces from the west. A lucky shot took you in the ribs just at the chainmail linkage behind the front plate, almost shaking you from your saddle as it punctured the metal links. The blow caused the protective runes which trace your seemingly delicate skin to flare with dark fire. Your magic keeps you from almost any injury, marking you out as one of the queen’s elite guard, but even it has its limits. One of your captains of horse took control swiftly, charging into the reloading crossbows with an horrendous clatter. You barely had time to signal your drummers to warn the main army before the orcs were upon you and the red mist descended. You rallied your troops and began to hurl powerful magic, piercing green eyes streaming with gathering magical power, all the while pouring sorcery into your hand-and-a-half rune sword.

Now, what seems hours later but may be only tens of minutes, you find yourself on the verge of defeat. Your soldiers are scattered or engaged in the turmoil. Your own finely forged sword is shattered on some kind of magical armour and you now wield a pair of long curved knives, almost as deadly. Piles of enemy foe litter the field but so do too many of your dwindling band. You respectfully recover another curved sword from a fallen comrade and strap it to your back wearily before climbing onto the back of a stray elven warhorse about to leave the field. He seems strong and unwounded. You spit a curse, flip back your long dark braid wearily, and consider your next move..