The Mamluks had painstakingly crawled the five hundred yards between Baloor and the Mad Prince's encampment. The moon was high in the sky, and they had covered themselves in thick woollen blankets to hide the glows of their sabres and armour. The Elves were keen sighted, and anything so much as a flicker in the darkness would have alerted them to the impending danger. Mundhir's men however, were the best of the best - aside from the World Breakers - and they had fought with the Elves before. 

Reaching the camp's outer perimeter, Mundhir's sergeants silently called for the hundred-strong force to hold. They would first congregate, ready their salvos, and then they would decimate. 

Dozens of Elves were patrolling nearby in pairs, looking out over the darkness. They may have seen the Mamluks if they moved in one constant river of motion, but that was not how Mundhir's men did things. They crawled fifty yards at a time, then halted for some minutes, before continuing. This dampened the chance of a pair of keen Elven eyes noticing the shifting shadows of a surprise attack. 

With practised skill, the Mamluks began to stand up, readying their composite bows. Usually, when fighting other humans, they would attack a camp with fire arrows for maximum damage and terror. The Elves were much more disciplined though, and they would use the fire arrows' loss of killing power to turn the fight against the Mamluks. 

"DURANAR! EBLISTAN!" Roared the Mamluks suddenly. 

The Elven sentries reacted with clinical professionalism, reaching for their bows, but it was too late. They were skewered from several angles by a dark cloud of near-invisible missiles. Some screamed, some retained their dignity. Either way, the camp was quickly alerted and war drums began to beat. Mundhir's men responded by sending a volley indiscriminately into the thickest part of the camp. The battle had begun.