by Doug Niles
That was but the beginning of a rain of death. Archers, this time the human mercenaries of Blackgaard’s Brigade, appeared on the cliffs, gleefully shooting down into the pinned ranks of the horsemen. A hundred ogres, the surly brutes who had accompanied Bloodgutter from Lemish, took their place beside their chieftain and added a steady barrage of large rocks to the fray. In the press below, most of the knights could not even turn their horses around, much less make an escape from the lethal mess.
Countless boulders tumbled from the heights, crushing knights, breaking the backs and legs of terrified horses. Ankhar himself heaved over one hundred boulders. More than a thousand archers showered the knights with their arrows until it became a killing ground such as Krynn had hardly known.
At the start of the charge, a thousand proud knights rode into the valley. After an hour of slaughter, less than a hundred straggled out.
“Rally to me, men! Hold the bastards here!” Sir Marckus cried, leading his charger back and forth along the line of swordsmen he had scrounged from the remnants of broken units. They were terrified, but his voice steadied them, made them remember that their best chance to live was to hold together.
“Stand and fight, man!” Marckus called, when a wild-eyed captain, one of Crawford’s aides, came thundering past on a panicked steed.
“Make way!” screamed the man. “Fall back to the south! Every man for himself!”
Marckus grimaced as he turned away, but not before he saw the man fall, pierced through the back by a plunging arrow. He spared no time on regret—better to try and save the lives of those who faced the foe than to worry about the fate of those who died trying to flee.
The cause was hopeless. The entire right wing of the army had been shattered, and their most powerful striking force, the armored knights, had been lost in the foolhardy charge into the narrow valley. The barbarian half giant, Marckus knew, had outgeneraled the Duke of Caergoth at every turn.
The captain found his duke, ashen faced and trembling, astride his stallion at the rear of the army. Reynaud, grim-faced and furious, was with him. Marckus glared for a moment at his fellow captain. It was Reynaud who had scouted the hills, reporting them impassable for a flanking maneuver. It was too late for recriminations—now, survival was all that mattered.
“Take the duke to safety!” ordered Marckus. “I’ll lead a fighting withdrawal.”
Without a word, the other captain slapped the hindquarters of the duke’s horse, setting the steed to flight. Reynaud joined him, the two of them galloping southward across the plains.
Marckus did the best he could, trying to hold the men together in retreat. When the line was intact, at least each man could draw on his comrades. They battled stubbornly, giving up ground. In doing so they gave the majority of the survivors a chance at escape.
Glancing back, the captain could see the catapults and ballistae, the wealth of supplies and cargo in the great baggage train. All were overrun by goblins and draconians. The enemy swarmed around the artillery pieces, hacking at the wooden frameworks, igniting them with oil and torches. At least they wouldn’t be able to turn those captured weapons against the army of Caergoth.
That was slight consolation, and the retreat continued. By late in the day, the army of Caergoth, those who remained, had left the field, and the goblins only ceased their pursuit when they were too tired to kill any more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A NEW AGE OF WAR
Things have gone very badly.” Coryn announced calmly, but Jaymes sensed disaster in the uncharacteristic way she bit her lip as she spoke.
She met him in the skeletal gatehouse of ruined Garnet. They had spent most of the day in the abandoned city, hearing the sounds of battle, seeing the smoke smudging the northern sky. Neither had wanted to go and witness the slaughter, but late in the afternoon Coryn had departed for a reconnaissance.
“So Ankhar pulled a surprise and attacked out of the hills?” Jaymes asked.
“Yes. Come, you can almost see from up here.” She led him up the damaged stairway to the top of the gatehouse. Staying low, they looked across the western plains.
They could see troops streaming past. The nearest were a mile or two away from them, and all were heading south as fast as they could march. A few horses, including one that looked like the duke’s proud stallion bearing a whip-wielding rider, raced among those afoot, quickly outdistancing them.
“They all have to cross the King’s Bridge,” Jaymes said. “If they’re closely pursued, it will be a slaughter.”
“Is there something we should do? Something to help?” Coryn asked, her face drawn.
“Why should we do anything?” challenged the warrior. “This isn’t our fight.”
“Decent men are dying out there!” snapped the wizard. “Men who are paying for their lord’s hubris, his stupidity, with their lives! It isn’t Duke Crawford I’m concerned about—it’s those brave soldiers and their widows, their fatherless children!”
Jaymes scowled, rubbing a hand across his face, and made no reply.
“Dammit! You wait here and watch then,” Coryn said contemptuously. “I have to do what I can!”
The warrior winced as though she had struck him. “I can think of one thing we could do that might be useful,” he said.
“What?”
He explained his idea, and she agreed. “I’ll go to the Vingaard Range. I’ll see if I can find Dram—if so, I’ll meet you at the bridge.”
“All right.”
After a fervent embrace, Coryn departed with a magical word, and Jaymes rode out onto the plain astride the horse he had stolen from the camp pickets the night before.
The scope of the disaster was immediately apparent. The swordsman fell in with the retreating army—no longer did he need to try and slip past vigilant sentries or bluff his way through checkpoints. He rode past footmen fleeing south as fast as they could run, then encountered a solitary captain, a weathered old veteran who wore the crest of the Rose, struggling to command a disorganized rear guard. The man welcomed Jaymes’s arrival with an appraising look and a nod of approval.
“Help steady these lads in the middle, if you can,” said the captain.
When a small group of goblins rushed them from behind Jaymes charged them singlehandedly, drawing and waving his sword—though he didn’t make it flame. Even so, the gobs fell back, and his example seemed to inspire the troops, who started taunting and jeering the enemy. The pursuers kept up the pressure, staying in sight but out of arrow range as they followed the retreat.
Every once in a while, a few goblins would rush forward, and the rearguard line would fight stubbornly. By sunset they had managed to hold off the pursuit long enough that the bulk of the army could make for their distant city. All the survivors would still have to pass over the long bottleneck formed by the King’s Bridge.
Jaymes and the Rose captain rode at opposite ends of the last remaining line. The makeshift brigade included men who bore crossbows. Others were armed with pikes or swords. The goblins came after, almost desultorily. The goblin strikes were usually beaten off, but on each occasion several more valiant soldiers fell.
Some worg riders and their wolves also rode forward in daring assaults. Once, Jaymes’s horse reared at one of these sallies and brought its heavy forehooves down hard, crushing the skull of the leading worg. After that, the enemy cavalry stayed away.
Jaymes’s leadership was of far more value than his sword in the retreat.
“Drop those pikes!” he urged at one point, seeing that the long poles wielded by some men—designed for tight ranks—were of little use now. “Pick up swords and shields. Stand fast, men!”
There were plenty of weapons available. Many of the troops, as they fled south, had simply cast aside their swords, crossbows, and shields. The rout was as chaotic as any Jaymes had ever seen.
At one point he came upon an overturned armorer’s wagon. Among the litter of blades and spear shafts he spotted a crate that had burs
t open to reveal several small, single-handed crossbows. He took only a few seconds to dismount, pick a couple of his favorite weapons, and snatch up several quivers of the small, lethal darts that served as ammunition. With the crossbows cocked and loaded, suspended beneath his cape, he felt better.
After dusk they got a brief respite as, at last, the pursuing army seemed to be sapped by the day-long battle. The humans were tired, too—dead weary, in fact—but the knowledge that survival depended on continuing southward provided powerful motivation, kept them moving long past the point of exhaustion.
During one of these lulls the Rose officer introduced himself to Jaymes as Captain Marckus, in the service of the Duke of Caergoth.
“Where’s your commander?” the swordsman asked.
“I saw him ride past, earlier,” Marckus remarked dryly. “He had a good horse under him.” The captain leaned over in his saddle and spat onto the ground. Then he squinted, staring at Jaymes.
“You look like you’ve held a command in your life,” he said. “Perhaps, as I have noticed, you know how to make ordinary men stand, to give courage with a word and a look. That’s not a thing that comes to many men. Tell me, were you once a knight?”
Jaymes scowled darkly. The question stung more than he had anticipated. “I did stand with the knights at Mason’s Ford,” he replied. “We held these bastards off over a long, bloody day.”
“Fair enough,” said Marckus, with a nod. He turned to ride back toward his end of the line, but his eyes lingered over the embossed hilt of Jaymes’s sword, now hanging at his side. “Nice weapon,” he said, before spurring his horse away.
The retreaters kept moving during the long, surprisingly cold night. The fighting faded away owing to the enemy’s fatigue, and the men kept marching southward in silent ranks. No one wanted to stop—and everyone understood that to fall behind was to die.
Near dawn, gray light suffused the plains, and the mass of men waiting to cross the bridge was visible even from two miles away. In a panicked throng, terrified soldiers scrambled, begged and pleaded for a chance to move onto the long span of white stone.
When Jaymes looked to the north, he saw that the army of Ankhar had made good use of the night’s rest. The goblins and other troops were refreshed, moving quickly, converging on the mass of terrified and disorganized humanity thronging at the entry to the bridge. Once again the worgs were in the lead, but now ogres and draconians were plainly visible, hastening to keep up with their mounted brethren. A compamy of armored men, apparently Dark Knights, rode at both flanks of the pursuing force.
The warrior rode over to Captain Marckus, who was staring at the scene. The veteran knight’s mustaches drooped, and his face was lined, as though he had aged ten years overnight.
“You should go down there,” Jaymes encouraged, pointing at the knot of disorder at the very terminus of the bridge. “Try to get them moving in some semblance of order—as fast as possible. They need an officer, someone to steady them. I’ll try to get our boys here to make a stand and gain for the rest a chance to get across.”
Marckus seemed ready to argue—no doubt he felt his place was here at the rear, facing the enemy.
“These men know you,” Jaymes argued. “You wear the crest of their duke. If they obey anyone, it will be you.”
The captain nodded, then offered a salute. “You’re a brave man,” he said.
“See you on the other side,” Jaymes replied.
He put the spurs to his horse’s heaving flanks and rode along before the line of swordsmen. The first rank of goblins on fleet wolves was bearing down rapidly, barely a mile away now.
“All right, lads,” Jaymes called out, assuming command. “The fools still haven’t learned their lesson. Let’s see if we can teach them how the men of Solamnia make war.”
“Chase!” roared Ankhar, striding back and forth through the increasingly ragged ranks of his mighty army.
His troops had won the great battle, he knew, but the full work was not done. If they could keep up the pressure, smash the remnants of Caergoth’s army on this side of the Garnet River, his would be a victory for the ages. If not, the humans would regroup.
Unfortunately, Rib Chewer’s worg riders were sadly depleted, many killed or wounded, the rest worn out and spread across twenty miles of foothill and plains. Blackgaard’s Dark Knights had done a great deal of killing in the early stages of the retreat, but now the huge horses were exhausted, barely capable of a staggering walk. He had two small companies of armored knights still fresh, and these were posted on the flanks of his pursuit force.
Yet Ankhar knew he was on the brink of an historic victory. If he could annihilate his enemy, the power of the knighthood would be broken across all Solamnia. The half-giant was determined to make that riverbank a killing ground.
He himself was so weary he could hardly stand, but he would not let that fatigue show.
Ankhar looked around, wishing he could have Laka’s counsel, but he couldn’t find her. He had told her to stay back from the fighting once it began, and her feeble legs would not allow her to keep pace with the pursuing army. Well, she would hear about the victory soon enough, and she would have to be satisfied.
“Come!” he roared, waving the emerald spearhead, the enchanted talisman of Hiddukel, over his head.
It may have been his imagination—or the bright sunlight—but it seemed the glow was not as intense as it had been at the start of the day.
Selinda had been restless for five days after arriving in Caergoth, but there was nothing to do but wait. For a time there had been no news. Then, yesterday, the rumors began to trickle in. She picked up from her servants and even from several courtiers of the duke’s court distressing rumors of invincible enemy hordes, a crushing defeat.
She proposed to Powell that they ride out onto the plains to see what was really going on. When he had suggested, not joking, that he would clap her in chains before allowing her to ride beyond Caergoth’s high walls, she had agreed to stay and wait.
Still, she sprang to her feet when she heard the first herald’s cry, and she was already down in the great hall when the Duke of Caergoth came striding through the doors of his mighty keep, flanked by Captain Reynaud. The nobleman stopped, shocked and a little confused, seeing Selinda waiting for him.
“How fared the battle?” she asked.
“Oh, fine,” he said. “I … I am so glad to see you. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”
“Aren’t there more important things right now?” she asked, stunned at his nonchalance.
“None that I can think of,” he said, snapping his fingers and sending a steward hurrying to the wine closet.
“I was terribly sorry to hear about the Duchess Martha,” the princess said. “Her death must be awful to bear.”
“These things happen,” he said, shrugging. “A small thing, compared to the killing out on the plains.”
“Was it a victory, then?” Selinda asked hopefully.
“Hard to say. Too soon to tell,” the duke replied dismissively before taking a large gulp of the wine the steward had just handed him. “I need to see my priest,” he added, “but then we’ll be having dinner—something splendid, to be sure. Can you join us?”
The princess frowned but saw she wasn’t going to get more information out of the duke, not right now. “Very well,” she said. “Thank you. When?”
Duke Crawford didn’t reply. He had already exited, heading for the temple of Shinare at a most undignified trot.
Through the long, dry morning the throng made its way across the bridge in steady ranks, paced by Captain Marckus’s steady voice and confident air. Jaymes and his diminishing company held the line against constant attacks. The goblins found renewed energy when they sensed the survivors were on the verge of escape.
For two hours the men of Solamnia fought a pitched battle at the north end of the long bridge. Jaymes commanded the soldiers at the rear, as Marckus moved others across the span as quickly as pos
sible. Archers in the bridge towers added to the defense, and Ankhar’s troops were not able to rupture the determined front.
Finally, the rear guard was the last unit, standing in a tiny knot between the towers at the northern end. Leaving the ground littered with their dead, the pursuing goblins had fallen back slightly beyond the reach of the deadly crossbows on the bridge towers.
They waited as though to see what these last humans would do next. No need to fight and die in such close quarters, after all.
“Let us face the enemy here, men,” Jaymes announced. “Stand shoulder to shoulder, and don’t let them onto the bridge.”
“How long must we hold out?” asked a young, wounded soldier plaintively. He looked with longing at the south shore, a quarter mile away.
“As long as it takes,” Jaymes said, trying not to let his anxiety show as he glanced around. Where was Coryn? Would she find Dram and bring him back in time to help?
“Just have faith, lad,” said Captain Marckus, who had come back to stand with the rear guard. “Your officers won’t let any more harm come to you.”
Not half a mile away, the ground was black with the gathering mass of Ankhar’s army. “If they cross the bridge, there’s nothing to stop them between here and Caergoth,” the veteran captain muttered quietly.
“I know. I might have a plan, but I’m waiting for a wizard to get here and help out.”
As they set up positions, Jaymes dismounted, sending his horse across to the other side of the bridge with a couple of wounded men lashed to the saddle. The first rank of the enemy, a line of huge hobgoblins, rushed forward with a roar.
The warrior drew the sword of Lorimar and twisted the hilt in his hands. Immediately bright blue fire erupted along the keen edge. In the face of those flames, the hobgoblins faltered.
In a flash of white smoke Coryn was there beside him. With her arrived Dram Feldspar and the two gnomes of Dungarden. They bore four stout casks.
