The silence after the Stone-Man's departure was a physical weight. It was the silence of a world holding its breath, stunned into submission. Dust motes danced in the air, glittering in the morning sun that now streamed through the cave mouth, illuminating the terrified, soot-streaked faces of the Frost-Tribe. The air reeked of ozone, shattered stone, and the vile, acidic stench of vaporized Cliff-Ghast.
Gron slowly helped Bor to his feet. Both men were trembling, their hands raw and blistered from the searing embers. They stared out at the transformed landscape. The cliff face was a raw, weeping wound of broken rock. The path was gone, but so was the chasm—filled in by the colossal debris from the Stone-Man's emergence. They were no longer trapped on a ledge; they were now perched on the edge of a newly-formed, treacherous slope of scree and shattered boulders that led down to the valley floor.
"It's... over?" Bor rasped, his voice cracking.
As if in answer, a sound cut through the silence—a sound they had almost forgotten in the face of the earth-shaking titan. It was the high, musical, and now unmistakably furious cry of an Elf.
From the tree line at the base of the new slope, figures emerged. Not a handful, but dozens. The Elves flowed from the forest like a silver tide, their faces masks of cold, elegant rage. They had seen the Stone-Man. They had seen its power unleashed. And they had seen the human cave, the source of the strange fire and the disruption, still standing.
Their leader, the one with the antler crown Karuk had faced before, pointed a long, graceful finger directly at the cave. His voice, amplified by magic, rang out, clear and sharp as broken ice.
"Desecrators! You have broken the ancient silence! You have called the wrath of the stone! This land will be cleansed of your blight!"
This was not a skirmish. This was an extermination.
"SHIELDS!" Gron roared, the command tearing from his raw throat. "SPEARS! TO THE MOUTH!"
The tribe scrambled. The few remaining shields—stretched hide on wooden frames—were thrust forward, forming a shaky barrier at the cave entrance. The last precious spears were passed to the strongest hunters. They were no longer fighting for food or pride. They were fighting for the right to exist.
The Elves did not charge. They began their ascent of the new slope, their movements impossibly graceful even on the unstable footing. They did not run; they flowed upwards, their feet barely seeming to touch the stone. And as they came, they let their arrows fly.
It was not a volley. It was a storm. A humming cloud of arrows, each fletched with white feathers and tipped with deadly, leaf-shaped flint, soared up towards the cave. They fell with terrifying accuracy.
THUD! THUD! THWACK!
The hide shields shuddered under the impacts. An arrow punched clean through one, its sharp tip stopping an inch from the holder's face. A hunter peeking over the shield cried out as an arrow sliced his cheek, drawing a line of bright red blood. The Elven archery was inhuman, each shot seeking a gap, a weakness.
"They're pinning us down!" Fen yelled, ducking as an arrow whistled past his ear and shattered against the cave wall behind him.
"We can't just hide!" Bor snarled. "They'll pick us apart!"
Gron knew he was right. They had to break the archers' rhythm. They had to make them move. He made a split-second decision, a gambler's throw with his people's lives as the stake.
"JAVELINS! ON MY MARK!" he bellowed. "AIM FOR THE LEADERS! NOT THE FRONT LINE! BOR, FEN, WITH ME! THE REST, COVER US!"
He took a deep breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. "NOW!"
The shield wall dipped for a single, terrifying second. In that moment, Gron, Bor, and Fen rose as one, their bodies coiled, and hurled their heaviest javelins with every ounce of strength they possessed.
They weren't aiming for the mass of ascending Elves. They were aiming for the cluster of leaders, the ones standing slightly apart, directing the assault with calm gestures.
Time seemed to slow. Gron's javelin sailed in a high, powerful arc. Bor's flew lower and faster, a line of deadly intent. Fen's was a spinning blur.
The Elven leaders saw them coming. Their eyes widened in surprise—not at the attack, but at its audacity and its unexpected tactical choice. One of them, a female with hair like spun moonlight, made a subtle gesture. A shimmering, green wall of light, like distorted air, appeared before them.
Gron's javelin struck the magical barrier and shattered, the flint head exploding into a thousand pieces. Bor's javelin hit the slope just in front of the leaders, kicking up a spray of stone and forcing them to step back. But Fen's javelin, flying true and low, slipped under the very edge of the green wall.
It took the antler-crowned leader in the thigh.
There was no scream. The Elf lord let out a sharp, guttural gasp, his perfect composure shattered. He stumbled, his hand clamping over the shaft now protruding from his leg. A shockwave of visible rage and disbelief passed through the Elven ranks. The arrow storm faltered for a crucial second.
A roar of triumph went up from the cave. They had drawn blood.
But they had also unleashed a hurricane.
The Elven lord looked up from his wound, his golden eyes burning with a cold, murderous fire that promised annihilation. He ripped the javelin from his leg with a snarl, ignoring the flow of silver blood.
He pointed at the cave, his voice a whip-crack of pure hatred that needed no translation.
"NO QUARTER! LEAVE NONE ALIVE!"
The graceful ascent became a furious, swift climb. The Elves abandoned their bows, drawing long, slender blades that glowed with a sickly green light. The time for arrows was over. Now, it was time for the knife.