by Dragon Lance
And above Thorbardin, in the high outposts below Galefang, other drums joined the tattoo. Willen turned, shading his eyes. From due west, just coming around the steeps above the meadows, was still another army, a fourth army as large as the other three.
*
Hurrying along the catwalk through Anvil’s Echo, Damon Omenborn scanned its massive defenses: the precarious suspended bridge with nothing around it except thin air and murder holes, and at its outward end the gateway, with its massive plug ready to rumble into place. It seemed inconceivable that any attacking force could reach Southgate, much less get through it. But, should that ever happen, here was the last and best line of defense.
Past Anvil’s Echo, Damon heard the sentinel drums, and his jaws clenched. So many invaders? Four armies? How could there be so many? Why had the wizards brought so many troops?
He ran through Gateway, outpacing his fifty volunteers, and scurried around the plug-housing to emerge on the walled ledge where his father and the Ten surveyed the lands beyond. At the wall, Damon looked out at the Promontory and felt his breath go ragged. He had never seen so many humans. He had never seen so many of anybody!
The first army, from the southwest, was halfway across the Promontory now, a huge, marching rank of grim warriors, sweeping forward along a wide front.
And to right and left, the other armies were approaching. Identical armies. Identical in number, identical in formation … His eyes narrowed as he picked out a horseman in the fore of the assault from the east. A fur-cloaked, helmeted man on a spotted horse, just like …
Damon’s eyes swung to the right. There, at the fore of the first group, was an identical horseman, fur cloak, spotted horse, and all. Damon clapped his father’s steel-plated back and pointed. “Look!”
The army from the south was just crossing the staging areas, far out on the Promontory. The distance was greater, but there, too, was a fur-cloaked man on a spotted horse.
“They are images!” Damon growled. “Magic! One army has become many!”
“Magic?” Willen Ironmaul squinted, peering out across the distance. “They aren’t real, then? Do you mean they can’t hurt us?” At the staging area – a collection of low sheds and walled pits where trade caravans assembled in season – something was happening. A pair of dwarves had appeared there, gold-bearded Daewar goods-tenders popping out of a shed to flee toward Southgate. The humans saw them, and a dozen horsemen thundered through the foot-lines after them. In a moment, the dwarves were down, felled by slashing blades. Even at this distance, those on the walled ledge could see the crimson of their blood.
Drums muttered, and they looked westward. Just beyond the rock formations below the Valley of the Thanes, a small group of Einar had bolted from hiding, directly into the path of the fourth army of humans. Tall warriors rushed to attack, and the dwarves tried to defend. A human fell, and then another. But it was over in a moment. Methodically, the marauders cut down the little group of dwarves and came on.
“They seem real enough,” Willen growled. “They kill like real people.”
“There is only one army,” Damon said flatly. “But we don’t know which one it is. Until we do, they might as well all be real.”
Chapter 17
THE BLOODY FIELDS OF SOUTHGATE
By sheer cunning – with the help of a pair of spells that had sent the white-coat leader Valneb to a place where his spells would fail until he could learn to say them backward and had turned the red-tunic Gilmar into a copper pot – the dark wizard Kistilan had taken control of the representatives of magic in the Kharolis mountains … just as he had intended to do from the day he left Xak Tsaroth. The two rival leaders would return eventually, he knew. Valneb would manage to reverse a return spell, and Gilmar would contrive to boil over and quench the fire beneath him. But Kistilan knew he could deal with them. In all these lands, only two remained of the wizards who were “favored of the powers” – himself and Megistal. And Megistal had disappeared.
To the rest of them, Kistilan had spelled out his terms. “When the dwarves are defeated,” he proclaimed, “and the Stone of Threes is recovered, you may have both – the stone, for the Tower of High Sorcery, and all surviving dwarves as slaves, to build the tower and for any other purpose you wish. But whatever else we find within the mountain fortress, including the fortress itself, is mine. It will be mine alone, to do with as I wish.”
Kistilan knew well the price the High Overlord would be willing to pay for dominance over the dwarven lands. The overlord dreamed of an empire, just as Kistilan dreamed of ultimate power over all creatures.
Thus the assault on Thorbardin was directed primarily by one person, and that person was Kistilan. It was his intention to move swiftly, to conquer the dwarves of this place and establish himself as Lord Sorcerer before any who might contest his right came along. So, using the elemental powers he had taken upon himself and drawing upon the magics of all the rest, he doubled the army of mercenaries, then doubled it again. Where seven thousand hired warriors had marched, now twenty-eight thousand closed upon the defense cordon set up by the dwarves at the base of Cloudseeker.
Sending thirty wizards each to follow and direct the three replicate armies, Kistilan himself – with an escort of twenty-seven acolytes who were sworn to his cause – accompanied the original mercenary force advancing from the southwest.
Perched comfortably on an elaborate throne floating fifty feet above the rearmost of the attacking mercenaries, Kistilan had an excellent view of the entire field of battle. He nodded in satisfaction as he saw the two dwarves flushed from the deserted trade camp fall, and again as he watched the little group of dwarves cut down by his forces’ left flank. Both of the armies involved were replicates, created by sorcery.
“Resist magic?” he muttered. “Sigamon was a fool to believe such a thing of dwarves.” With a wave of his hand, the wizard signaled the distant wizards following the conjure-armies. His forces and the second mass, just to his right, would hold back from the first assault. The third and fourth groups, to the east and west of the dwarven line, would begin the attack.
Kistilan muttered a spell and gave his orders to the empty air. Immediately, two voices – other mages nearly a mile away on each side – responded, their voices sounding as near to him as though they had been at his sides.
On the wide sweep of meadow west of the stone formations, the fourth army spread and quartered, to present a long, facing line to the waiting dwarves. At the call of trumpets, the thousands of men there began to move inexorably forward, company after company of footmen with shields, pikes, and swords. The front wave was a solid line of men, shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield, stretching nearly four hundred yards from end to end. The attackers advanced to within a hundred yards of the dwarven defenders, then stopped, facing them. Trumpets sounded again, and the front line of humans dropped down behind their extended shields. Behind them, archers and Sackmen loosed their bolts. Arrows and hand-darts flew by the hundreds, whining and humming toward the nearest dwarves.
In the blink of an eye, the dwarves reformed, front ranks kneeling, second ranks raising their shields. The rattle of arrows and darts against dwarven steel was deafening. Here and there a dwarf staggered and fell, but the holes in the shield-wall were sealed instantly with other shields.
Again the archers and darters let fly, and again the dwarven line was barely touched. Men in the assault wave braced themselves on their shields, preparing to arise and advance.
It was what Willen Ironmaul had been waiting for. As the shield-bearers shifted their feet to straighten, there was an instant of vulnerability. Willen signaled, a drum sounded, and, from the rocks above the low slope, hundreds of iron balls shot out from hundreds of slings.
The timing was perfect. Everywhere, men fell, flopping over one another, bumping one another as they went down. The row of shields collapsed and slings hummed again, like nests of angry hornets. The second barrage of iron balls ripped through the unprotect
ed ranks of archers and dartsmen. Without shields, and only lightly armored, these crumpled by the hundreds as heavy iron smashed against skulls, ribs, arms, and legs, into throats and abdomens, many balls caroming away to strike a second or third time in the massed ranks before losing their momentum.
A charge of mounted warriors, just assembling behind the archers, fell apart as iron balls found their marks among men and horses.
“Look at their fallen!” Damon Omenborn shouted, atop the Southgate ledge. “See what is happening!”
Everywhere, out on the field where men and horses had fallen, the air seemed to shimmer, a greenish glow that darted here and there. And the fallen bodies began to shimmer and fade.
“That army is not real!” Damon said. “It is just sorcery. Tell them!”
Drums sang, and the dwarven defense line hesitated, hearing the message. Then, as though by plan, a dozen or more wild-haired Klar warriors broke from one of the dwarven companies and ran toward the attackers, howling and brandishing cudgels. Arrows sang, and blades lashed out as they closed, and within a second every Klar was on the ground, mortally wounded … for a moment. Silence hung over the field as the twitching bodies sat upright, pulling disappearing shafts from themselves, picked up their cudgels, and charged again, right into the thick of the thousands of men. They charged and kept charging, leaving a widening trail of human bodies behind them, and slings hummed on the mountainside, reinforcing the attack.
“Crazy Klar,” Willen Ironmaul muttered.
“Crazy?” Damon said. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re just having fun. Give a Klar a good excuse to run amok, he’ll usually take it.”
On his floating throne behind the first army, Kistilan stared at the distant havoc ahead of him, then his eyes went cold. Somehow the dwarves, a few of them at least, had resisted his shock troops. Seven thousand perfectly good spell-built fighters out there, and a mere handful of dwarves were running loose among them, knocking down everything that stood. In anger, he pointed and muttered. Lightning flared from his finger, crackling over the heads of his warriors to dart bright bolts at the rampaging Klar. One by one, the dwarves staggered and fell, blackened and smoking.
The fourth army, though, was in total disarray, runaway horses and runaway men scampering everywhere. Many of them were heading blindly back toward the main force. Kistilan muttered, and the entire fourth army, in their thousands, shimmered and disappeared. On the field were only the bodies of the fallen, not yet faded away, and the smoking remains of the fallen dwarves.
Then, two of those moved, stirred, and sat upright.
Kral Baden shook himself, looked around, and grinned, bright teeth glinting in a soot-blackened face. To the other surviving Klar, he said, “Thought lightning hit us. But no lightning today. No clouds.”
*
The third army of humans had continued to advance and now faced the left flank of the little dwarven line, the lead units only a few hundred yards away.
Lodar Yellowkilt, leading the elite Daewar corps called the Golden Hammer, had heard the drums and had seen the human forces on the west collapse and disappear. The drums were right, then. Of the three human hordes remaining, two were only wizardry – not “real” in dwarven terms, and therefore not truly dangerous. But which ones were the illusions?
Out on the field, human troops were forming, horsemen coming to the fore for a charge against the dwarven footmen. Lodar signaled, and a Hylar drummer raced to him. “Request permission to test this force,” Lodar said.
The drummer beat a quick tattoo on his vibrar, the deep, haunting rhythm rolling upward along the slopes. There was a moment’s hesitation, then a response. “The chief of chiefs gives permission,” the Hylar drummer translated.
“Volunteers!” Lodar called. Instantly, the entire Golden Hammer stepped forward, volunteering.
“Very well.” Lodar nodded. “Full strength.” He pointed. “Those horsemen will charge us,” he said. “Wait for my signal, then form two companies. First company line countercharge, down and defend, then reverse. Second company hold fast. Hammer and anvil.”
“They have lances,” a squad leader pointed out.
“They have no lances,” Lodar said bluntly. “That is only wizardry. They are not there.”
“Aye.” The squad leader grinned. “Like that other bunch those crazy Klar routed.”
Trumpets blared, and a hundred horsemen separated from the human front, trotting as they spread into a long line, each six feet from the next. Lodar Yellowkilt traced the pattern of Reorx on his armored breast and hoped that what he had told the squadman was true. His troops were convinced now that the enemies ahead were nothing more than figments of sorcery.
Lodar hoped earnestly that they were.
The human cavalry line came at a trot, then a canter, and then full gallop as steel-tipped lances leveled out ahead of them. In a moment they had crossed half the field and were midway between their own forces and the dwarven line.
“By the plan!” Lodar shouted. “Charge!”
Shields high and hammers ready, half the Golden Hammer ran toward the charging horsemen, spreading into a spearhead formation, a tight, solid V of racing dwarves.
The human riders, caught off-guard by the unexpected countercharge, hesitated for an instant, and the line became ragged. But then they were galloping again, lances lowering toward the short, stocky targets of the dwarves. Hooves thundering, dwarven boots thumping an echo, the two formations clashed at midfield. Here a lance pierced dwarven armor, there a Daewar ducked beneath a thrust and broke the front legs of a horse with a single hammer blow. Then, abruptly, all the dwarves dropped to the ground, falling backward, their shields over them. Horses thundered over and around them, lances spearing downward, men falling as hammers lashed out from beneath shields, cutting their mounts from under them.
A long second passed, and the charge had swept by, thundering onward toward the second unit of the Golden Hammer, still holding the line. Where the forces had met was a jumble of bodies – men, horses, and dwarves everywhere. But among the dwarves, most raised their shields, jumped to their feet, and turned.
Lodar gritted his teeth in pain, looking at the broken lance head jutting from his breastplate. “It isn’t real,” he told himself fiercely. “It had better not be real.”
All around him, other maimed and pierced dwarves were telling themselves the same thing. And suddenly, lances faded, holes in armor closed, blood stopped flowing. And high on the mountainside beyond, drums sang of what sentinels saw. This army, like the one to the west, was only a figment.
But figment or not, the horsemen were still charging toward the second company of the Golden Hammer. “To the anvil!” Lodar ordered. “Crush formation!”
A solid phalanx of angry Daewar at his back, Lodar Yellowkilt headed after the human horsemen.
Still seventy strong, the horse charge hit the “anvil” of Daergar defense like a scythe hitting wheat … and bounced off like a scythe hitting stone.
With shields braced by stout bats of wood, heeled into solid stone, the Daewar met the horse charge in the way they had learned a century before. Real or not, lances or no, a horse charge cannot break steel shields set in stone. The humans hit the line, lances breaking, and many were thrown from their saddles by the impact. Some horses went over the shields, where their saddles were emptied by sling-balls and hammer blows. Others veered aside, bumping and jostling each other. “Fall back!” a human shouted. “Regroup!”
But it was too late. Like steel-swathed, gold-bearded wrath, the first company of the Golden Hammer hit the riders from behind, crushing them against the “anvil” of the braced line. Everywhere steel clanged on steel, men screamed, horses floundered, and the solid, deep-throated chant of the Golden Hammer echoed: “Re-orx! Re-orx! Re-orx!” Dwarves fell, then stood to fight again. Men fell and did not.
Far out on the field, wizards guiding the replicate army ran here and there in confusion and frustration. The army began to disperse, large
groups heading off to find cover, wizards following, bickering among themselves.
In a place where spring thaws had eroded the land along a tiny stream into a maze of high-banked gulches, Slip Codel had been hiding, waiting for a chance to ambush someone. The young Theiwar had become separated from his assigned group, and then had been cut off by the advance of the mercenaries from the east.
Now he crouched low, behind a leaning slab of stone on a tall bank, as hundreds of humans raced past him, some riding and some on foot. Slip watched them pass, many of them within arm’s length of his hiding place, and itched to ambush them. But he was alone, and they were many. After a few minutes, they had all passed, and Slip started to rise. Then he crouched again as a strange-looking man raced around a shoulder of rock and stopped, out of breath and panting. The man was unarmed and wore nothing more than a long dirty robe of white material. With a hiss of anger, he peered at the clefts where the other humans had gone and raised a hand. “Dek seratis,” he said. “Dek manit —”
Whatever else he meant to say went unsaid. Slip Codel’s hammer rapped him on the skull, and the human slumped to the ground.
Slip dropped down beside him and walked around the inert form of the fallen man. The man was still breathing. Slip raised his hammer again, then changed his mind. Slinging his hammer, he crouched beside the man, lifted him across strong shoulders, and stood. With the unconscious human dragging the ground fore and aft, Slip headed for the slopes of Thorbardin. It might be, he felt, that somebody there would like to talk to this human about what was going on.
On the walled ledge outside Southgate, Willen Ironmaul and Damon Omenborn saw the destruction of the horse charge and knew that Lodar Yellowkilt had guessed correctly. They had identified the second conjured army.
Damon, peering through a far-seer devised by Hylar glaziers – magnifying lenses mounted within a brass tube – saw something now that he had not seen before. Far out on the Promontory, where two full identical armies yet remained, a speck hung in the air above one of the hordes. Twisting the ribbed bands of the device, he adjusted the lenses for greater magnification. The speck grew and became a man sitting in a chair … a chair suspended from nothing, simply floating above the humans massed below.
