“With all due respect, Sire,” Bram replied as diplomatically as possible, “I’ll need the vantage that I gain from the mountainside. I may not be able to spot Lyim from down on the plain with your horsemen.”
“I don’t like it,” Mercadior said, frowning, “but then I haven’t your magical perspective. Very well, DiThon, in this I will defer to your judgment. Just remember, you are here only to engage Rhistadt directly. His forces are the concern of the warriors.”
Pursing his lips, the emperor squinted to the east, as if he thought to see Lyim’s army approaching. “I’ll be rejoining my troops as well,” announced Mercadior, intentionally drawing both Fireforge and Hothjor back into the discussion.
The plan for the attack had been Emperor Mercadior’s. The dwarven contingents had agreed to it largely because it kept their forces completely separate; neither the Hylar nor the Neidar would have agreed to fight alongside one another. With his massive helmet tucked under his left arm, the emperor of Northern Ergoth extended his right hand first to Hothjor, then Fireforge. “May we meet again after the battle,” he declared, gripping each dwarf’s mighty hand. The warriors seemed to share a bond that went beyond their short acquaintance.
Bram was startled when Mercadior next extended the same warrior’s blessing toward him before he turned and scrambled back down the steep slope to where his war-horse waited with several of his cavaliers. The emperor mounted and rode westward. Eventually Mercadior disappeared into the long, wide depression that sheltered the Ergothian cavaliers, along with the hill dwarves. From atop the rocks Bram could see their lance tips and scattered helmet plumes, but he knew that they were completely hidden by the rolling ground from anyone marching through the Pass.
Bram realized it was time to invoke the skill most used by all tuatha, one he could employ only because of his half-tuatha heritage. After a moment’s concentration, picturing himself as the wind, he shrouded himself from normal view.
Next, Bram began a complicated series of gestures and intonations that would, in time, turn the gray sky above the battlefield to a dark and stormy cauldron. He would not bring rain—not yet, at least—but with storm clouds to work with, his tuatha magic could accomplish much. The spell took some time to complete, and it would be even longer before the storm clouds were entirely gathered.
By the time Bram finished the spell, the sound of the approaching host was distinct and could not be denied. Heart hammering, Bram scanned the horizon to the east. The ground fell away gradually, with numerous folds and rises. Before long he could see tiny black specks appearing and disappearing over the crests. There were only a few at first; advance scouts, he assumed. But shortly the few became too many dots to count. Together they flowed like a river across each small slope. The specks grew larger and more distinct, until Bram could make out individuals among the mass.
Panicky thoughts began racing through Bram’s mind. The scouts were too far ahead of the main body; they would see the Ergothian warriors and hill dwarves before the trap could be sprung. Once the scouts saw the danger, their shouts would alert the rest of Lyim’s army. Not only would the ambush be ruined, but the entire contingent would be in grave danger.
Bram held his breath as the scouts marched onward. When he thought they must be nearly on top of Mercadior’s army, they descended into a nearly imperceptible dip in the ground. In the blink of an eye, more than half tumbled to the ground. They were pierced by bolts fired from the powerful, heavy crossbows of Hillhome’s dwarves who were concealed in the tall grass. Within moments, the survivors were overwhelmed by other dwarves who sprang up as if from beneath the ground. Bram could scarcely believe how quickly and silently the dwarves had accomplished their task. Someone—perhaps Mercadior—had foreseen the need to guard against such an advance element.
By now the forward element of the main body was entering the Pass. Confident that their scouts would alert them to any danger, these marchers were oblivious to their surroundings. They walked in an extended mob. Many carried their spears and halberds thrown over their shoulders, others gripped them just below the heads and dragged the tail ends of the poles along the ground. Some wore armor, but many did not. Besides men hoisting weapons, there were countless wagons, carts, horses, donkeys, fancy carriages, even women and children marching along with the mass.
Bram scanned the field for any sign of Lyim. He had hoped the potentate would be easy to spot. Perhaps Lyim is riding in one of the closed carriages, Bram thought. Was Kirah with him? Or had she stayed behind in Qindaras?
His thoughts were cut short by the sound of a boulder tearing loose from the side of the mountain and tumbling earthward. The attack had begun. The air was filled with the clamor of cracking rock. Hundreds of Hylar threw their weight against the great levers wedged beneath key stones on the side of the Pass. The cracking turned to rumbling, and then to a tremendous roar. Stones of every size, from fist-sized rocks to boulders as big as houses, tumbled and smashed down the slope. The mountainside that had been silent and peaceful moments ago was now transformed into a churning torrent of stones, trees, and earth. Bram could feel the mountain shuddering beneath his feet.
Below him, the Hylar had already cast aside their levers and grabbed up their weapons: the massive axes, hammers, maces, picks, and heavy swords favored by their race. Like the dwarves themselves, many of the weapons were centuries old. But Bram knew that even those blades predating the Cataclysm were keen as razors and as solid as these mountains.
Bellowing their battle-cry of “Thorbardin!” the Hylar rushed down the mountainside, now scoured clean and covered only with soft dirt. On the plain below, the huge mass of boulders and earth was still surging forward under its tremendous momentum. The mob of people in the Pass was collapsing in on itself. Those on the flanks of the army of Qindaras ran in panic toward the center, directly away from the avalanche. The army of Qindaras was being pinched in the middle, resembling an enormous hourglass laid on its side.
But as the rock slide petered out, a second wave of terror burst out from the swirling dust to crash into the compacted mass of Qindarans. This new force of dwarves rushed across the churned and broken ground as easily as if it were a drill field. Bram could almost feel the crunch as the forward edge of that onrushing pack crashed into the clustered and dazed enemy.
The deep, rumbling war cry of the dwarves mingled with the screams of dying humans and the shouts of men. The incessant clash of steel ringing against steel rose above it all. From Bram’s position above the fight, there were no distinct sounds. There was only a constant roar, like a waterfall of steel. He could see that the dwarves from both sides of the Pass were easily cutting their way through the panicked ranks of Lyim’s militia. They seemed impeded as much by the fallen bodies, laid out like trampled rye, as by the armed resistance of their foes. It would be very short work for the two prongs of dwarves to link in the middle. Then, all they had to do was maintain their positions, until Lyim’s army fell.
Away from the paralyzing press of bodies at the waist of the Pass, Lyim’s officers were already sorting out their troops and organizing the inevitable counterattacks. Mercadior’s plan was working beautifully. The humans seemed unconcerned about the possibility of a threat from any other direction.
Bram looked for some sign of Lyim Rhistadt or the deadly extraplanar creatures the Council of Three’s spies had reported. He saw neither, but was reassured by the dark, brooding sky that had answered his summons.
Mercadior struck. His cavaliers emerged from beyond the Pass in three long, unbroken lines. They formed ribbons of color, each cavalier in his family crest, each horse draped in the same hues. Their lances pointed skyward with pennants fluttering.
Flanking them on foot were the dwarves of Hillhome. Next to the Ergothian cavaliers, they looked drab in their simple, earthy tones. But they advanced with their powerful crossbows cocked and loaded, and there was no questioning their deadly intent.
The cavaliers and dwarves advanced forty pace
s as a body, then stopped. By now, the Qindaran forces had noticed them and were running in great alarm back into the mass of people in the Pass. Ranking enemy soldiers struggled to form whatever spearmen they could find into a hasty line to oppose the horsemen. They shoved and kicked and even threatened with their swords to stop their soldiers from fleeing in panic and to form them into close ranks. Only a solid, unwavering wall of spear points had any chance to withstand the coming armored charge. Bram watched anxiously, thinking that if Mercadior did not order the charge soon, the opportunity might be lost.
The dwarves raised their crossbows and fired. Bram judged the distance to be no more than one hundred twenty paces. The dwarves could hardly miss such a massive body of targets at that range. Bram twitched as the front rank of humans collapsed backward like a swath of wheat cut off at the base by a scythe. The second rank of dwarves stepped through the first and fired another volley, with the same effect.
Fear rippled visibly through the throng of Qindarans. Wounded and dying spearmen toppled back into the men behind them, tangling their weapons and clutching at comrades for help. Gaps opened in the thin line. Men were looking over their shoulders while officers screamed at them to stand their ground.
The dwarves dropped their crossbows and unslung their heavy hand weapons. Mercadior, in the middle of the front rank of cavaliers, was easily identifiable by the imperial crest on his tunic. At a wave of his lance, the lines of chargers began trotting forward. Lance tips lowered. Then the mighty horses were charging ahead, clods of earth churning beneath their hooves and dust rising in their wake.
Rather than face that onslaught, the Qindarans dropped their spears and fled. The undisciplined citizens of Qindaras, eager enough to butcher a huddled group of village militia on the plains, were not prepared to stand firm before a thundering line of armored horsemen. Men who might have survived even in small groups by turning aside the onrushing enemy instead turned their backs and tried to escape. But there was nowhere to go in the compacted mass west of the Pass, no way to outrun a horse, no place to hide.
The cavaliers crashed into the panicking humans without slowing dawn. They stabbed with lances, slashed with swords, smashed with maces; every stroke felled an enemy. The vicious war-horses kicked and trampled. Wherever the horsemen plunged in, Lyim’s army melted away. Where the horsemen passed over, the ground was carpeted with bodies and stained red.
A few Qindaran soldiers tried to break past the cavaliers and flee westward or climb up the flanking slopes. These the hill dwarves either shot down with crossbows or cornered and offered a choice: surrender or die.
Still, Lyim did not appear.
Watching the battle unfold from high above, Bram could scarcely believe that all was going so well. The badly outnumbered dwarves and cavaliers were slaughtering their enemies. The humans west of the Pass were all but defenseless. Only those to the east, where a concerted counterattack was mounting against Hothjor’s dwarves, seemed capable of resisting.
But Bram did not feel the thrill of victory. He was too aware that the primary reason for fighting this battle in the first place had been to kill Lyim. Even if the army of Qindaras was completely destroyed, little would be gained if Lyim escaped with the gauntlet. Bram continually scanned the plain east of the Pass, looking for any sign of the former mage.
An odd noise from the western end of the battlefield grabbed Bram’s attention. A piercing shriek, high-pitched and dissonant, cut through the din and seemed to scrape the nerves inside Bram’s ears. His heart skipped when he looked back to the west. Dark shapes raced on leathery wings through the sky. There appeared to be several dozen of them flying in a loose mass. Each was much larger than a man. Their limbs were gaunt and skeletal, ending in oversize hands and feet equipped with long, sharp claws. Even at a distance, he could see enormous tusks protruding from their dark mouths. Their eyes burned like embers.
Bram had heard of the terrifying, enormous creatures under Lyim’s command. But preliminary reports said nothing about their flying. That one, crucial fact could change the face of the battle, or at least the viability of Hothjor’s plan.
Dwarves scrambled for their crossbows almost too late as, in twos and threes, the otherworldly creatures wheeled and dived toward Mercadior’s cavaliers. Filthy, snaggled claws raked the unprepared warriors. Armor, helmets, heads, and limbs were torn away by unearthly talons. Horses with their faces slashed, blinded by blood and terror, stumbled and crashed to the ground. The monsters’ shrieks of bloodlust rose above the din of the battle.
Bram could tell by the sounds that the tide of battle was turning, that these flying beasts from outside Krynn were slaughtering his friends and allies as easily as the cavaliers and dwarves had earlier slaughtered the Qindarans.
The surprise appearance of the flying monsters made Bram doubly glad he had summoned the storm clouds before the battle began. Now he removed a pinch of dust from his robe and sprinkled it into his left palm. Raising the open hand, he blew the dust away, then swept the head of his staff through the tiny cloud. The dust scattered, but swirled back together, then spiraled upward in a tiny whirlwind. As it rose, the wind around Bram increased. The wind spread down the mountainside, picking up momentum as it descended, until it was whipping up dust and twigs with considerable force. Soon it would sweep across the entire Pass, and eventually grow to such power that nothing would be able to fly in it.
As the wind intensified, the creatures strafed Bram’s position on the mountainside. He knew they could not see him, since he was magically concealed. Still, his heart skipped a beat when their nearness revealed the man whose greed and ambition had brought this disaster about. Crouching low across the back of one of the enormous, gargoylelike flying creatures was Lyim Rhistadt. Dagamier was right—Lyim’s right hand had been magically restored, the gleaming gauntlet evident as he held to his creature’s hideous neck. Bram could well make out the feral gleam in the potentate’s eyes.
Before Bram could fashion a spell, Lyim’s mount banked abruptly away, fighting against the wind. The spellcaster spotted something that he had been both afraid and hopeful to see. Kirah rode behind Lyim, her armored arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Fear and excitement mingled in the eyes he knew so well. Bram couldn’t tell if his wayward aunt was captive or captivated by the force of Lyim’s personality. Either way, he couldn’t let her presence change his plan of action, or the hoped-for outcome.
Kneeling in the soft earth left behind by the avalanche, Bram clutched his staff in one hand. With the fingers of his other hand he dug into the ground and squeezed together a lump of soil. Head bowed, Bram hastened the elemental spell, chanting over and over the mantra his mother had taught him, all the while tracing patterns in the dirt with his fingers. New patterns were scratched over the old ones, glowing briefly, only to be replaced by yet another tracing. Soon Bram was surrounded by the complex sigils. They completely covered the ground from the hem of his brown robe to as far as his arms could stretch. They began shifting by themselves behind his tracing finger, flowing together into even more complex patterns and interwoven knots.
Slowly the slope below Bram swelled, then pushed upward in a slight hump. Cracks appeared around the mound. Again it heaved upward, then again, when suddenly the ground burst up in a spray of dirt and rocks. Part rock, part dirt and clay, the pile towered above the lord to twice his height.
At Bram’s final order, the earth elemental’s sunken, stony eyes opened and stared at him. Bram had only to speak his command, and the elemental set about carrying it out. Like a wave it rolled down the mountainside, absorbing whatever lay in its path and leaving a rippling earth wake behind. The elemental plowed straight through to where the cavaliers fought a valiant battle against the winged fiends. Aware now of the threat, the mounted warriors defended themselves bravely with sword and shield. The dwarves with their crossbows kept up a steady fire, although the usually lethal bolts had little effect against these monsters. All the while, the fiends hovered and
swooped just out of reach, occasionally diving to rake at a cavalier or dwarf.
The elemental planted itself in the midst of the cavaliers. As one of the flying creatures swooped low to claw at the mound of earth, the elemental flung an enormous earthen limb upward. Lyim’s creature smashed into the elemental, then was enveloped by it. It was obvious that the winged creature thrashed and tore at the suffocating mound, but it could not break free from its prison. The struggling stopped abruptly and the great paw opened, dumping out the fiend’s limp corpse.
When two more of Lyim’s winged monstrosities ventured too close to Bram’s elemental and were mashed to pulp, the rest withdrew to higher altitude, circling and considering carefully this new opponent. Remaining in flight was an effort for them now, as Bram’s wind buffeted them harshly.
Bram’s gaze, however, was locked on Lyim, clinging with Kirah to the back of his flying fiend. The potentate was shouting commands to the creatures, who seemed to be forming for a renewed attack. Lyim looked flushed with victory. The appearance of the monsters had altered the course of the battle enormously. Now that the cavaliers were reduced to defending themselves against attacks from the air and the Neidar bolts were being fired skyward, the human army on the ground was renewing its attacks vigorously. A wedge had been driven through the Hylar in the center; not yet large enough for reinforcements to move through, but it would continue to widen unless the cavaliers returned to the battle.
The wind and the storm had at last reached their peak. Bram scrambled atop a boulder that had survived the avalanche. There he gripped his staff with both hands and thrust it skyward as if trying to pierce the clouds. When he snapped the rod suddenly downward, a bolt of lightning arced from the churning storm to transfix one of the flying creatures. A scream pierced the air, rising above the clash of the battle and the rush of wind. The monster crumpled and plummeted toward the ground, limp and smoking.
The Seventh Sentinel Page 28
