"To the right!" Morgarath screamed, pointing his sword toward King Duncan's eagle standard. As before, the Wargals heard the words and his thought in their minds. The army wheeled slightly, heading for the gap. And now, through the chanting, Morgarath heard a dull drumming sound. An unexpected sound.
Hoofbeats.
The sudden doubt in his mind communicated instantly to the minds of his army. The advance faltered for a moment. Then, cursing the Wargals, he drove them forward again. But the hoofbeats were still there and now, peering through the clouds of dust raised by the enemy army, he could see movement. He felt a sudden, overpowering surge of fear and again the Wargal army hesitated.
And this time, before he could mentally flail them forward, the curtains of dust seemed to part and a wedge of heavy cavalry, fully armored and at the gallop, burst into sight, less than a hundred meters from his army's front line.
There was no time to form into the sort of defensive square that was infantry's only hope against a cavalry attack. The armored wedge smashed into the extended front line of the Wargals, collapsing the formation and driving into the heart of Morgarath's army. And the farther they penetrated, the wider the gap became, as the wedge shape split and separated the Wargals, just as Morgarath had been planning to do to his enemy. Now Morgarath heard one long, rising horn blast in the distance. Standing high in the stirrups, he cast his glance left and right, and saw, from either wing of Duncan's army, more cavalry deploying, driving in on his flanks, smashing his formations. Dimly, he realized that he had exposed his army to the worst possible situation that he could have contrived: caught in the open by the full force of Duncan's cavalry.
Over the years, Sir David of Caraway Fief had studied the tactics of cavalry in battle. He knew that the major effect of a cavalry charge came in the first moments of thunderous impact as horsemen drove into an enemy line. With the full momentum of the charge behind them, their three-meter-long lances smashed through armor, flesh and bone and hurled enemy troops back in disarray, to be trampled under the horses' hooves. But once the horsemen lost their momentum, and a general melee formed, that major advantage was lost.
Accordingly, he had trained the Araluen cavalry in a new series of maneuvers. After that first thundering charge, the cavalry that had hit the center of the Wargal line withdrew and quickly reformed.
Each company of eighty cavalry men now split into four arrowhead formations of twenty troopers each-the formations riding one behind the other. The cavalry approaching from either wing were already deployed in the same formation. Now, as a bugle signal sounded, they employed a tactic that Sir David had christened The Hammerblows.
The leading arrowheads thundered forward and crashed into the Wargal line, scattering dead and wounded Wargals to either side as they drove in. Then, before their momentum was lost, they pivoted their horses and galloped away, splitting to either side.
A few seconds behind them, the second wave was already at the gallop. Giving the Wargals no chance to recover, they smashed into the line, lances thrusting, horses trampling.
Then, before the Wargals could come to close quarters, the second arrowhead swung about and withdrew, making room for the third wave to come crashing in after them.
As the fourth squadron began to gallop forward to attack, the first was already re-forming behind them, ready to begin the whole process over again.
All along the line, the Araluen cavalry hit the Wargal army with a rapid, nonstop series of devastating hammer blows, sending the savage, bearlike soldiers reeling at twenty different points, cutting the line into a series of disjointed, uncontrolled groups, which were then struck in their own turn.
From his central vantage point, Morgarath watched, enraged, as his line was systematically cut to pieces. There was no tactic he could devise to counter Sir David's brilliantly executed battle plan. Even if there had been, he could never have communicated it to the Wargals. Their simple minds understood basic commands-advance, fight, kill. Their major advantage in battle was their implacable savagery, and their total confidence in their own eventual victory. But now there was a new presence on the battlefield, casting its shadow over the Wargal army.
Fear.
They had an innate fear of cavalry and Morgarath sensed the first flickering premonition of panic and defeat among them. He tried to force them forward, willing them to advance. But their fear and their helplessness against these new Araluen tactics were too strong. They still fought ferociously, and their swords and short spears took a fierce toll on those horsemen they could reach. But their resolve was beginning to buckle, along with their formation. And Morgarath knew it.
Screaming with fury, he sent a mental order he had sent only once before: Retreat.
Then he wheeled his horse and, with his henchmen beside him, galloped back through his fleeing army, clearing a path with his sword as he went.
At Three Step Pass, there was a hopeless tangle as thousands of the rear guard tried to force their way through the narrow gap in the rocks. There would be no escape for him there-but escape was the last thought on his mind. His only wish now was for revenge against the people who had brought his plans crashing into the dust. He drew his remaining troops into a defensive half circle, their backs to the sheer rocks that barred the way to the high plateau.
Seething in fury and frustration, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. The Skandian attack had melted away as if it were never there. And then he realized that it never had been. The soldiers advancing down from the ridge wore Skandian helmets and carried Skandian shields, but it had been a ruse to draw him forward. The fact that they had the helmets and shields meant that, somewhere, Horth's forces had been defeated. That could only have been accomplished if someone had led an intercepting force throughout the impenetrable tangle of the Thorntree Forest.
Someone?
Deep in his mind, Morgarath knew who that someone was. He didn't know how he knew. Or why. He knew it had to be a Ranger and there was only one Ranger who would have done it.
Halt.
Dark, bitter hatred surged in his heart. Because of Halt, his fifteen-year dream was crumbling before his eyes. Because of Halt, fully half of his Wargal soldiers were lying broken in the dust of the battlefield.
The day was lost, he knew. But he would have his revenge on Halt. And he was beginning to see the way. He turned to one of his captains.
"Prepare a flag of truce," he said.
32
T HE KINGDOM'S MAIN ARMY ADVANCED SLOWLY ACROSS THE littered battlefield. The crushing attacks by the cavalry on three sides had given them a decisive victory in the space of a few short minutes.
In the second line of the command party, Horace rode beside Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster had selected Horace as his shield man, riding on his left side, in recognition of his service to the kingdom. It was a rare honor for someone in his first battle, but Sir Rodney thought the boy had more than deserved it.
Horace viewed the battlefield with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was vaguely disappointed that, so far, he had not been called upon to play a part. On the other, he felt a profound sense of relief. The reality of battle was far removed from the glamorous dreams he had entertained as a boy. He had pictured a battle like this as a series of carefully coordinated, almost choreographed actions involving skillful warriors performing brave acts of chivalry. Needless to say, in those dreams, the most prominent and chivalrous warrior on the field had been Horace himself.
Instead, he had watched in horror the stabbing, hacking, shoving brawl of blood and dust and screams that had developed before him. Men and Wargals and horses had all died and their bodies sprawled now in the dust of the Plains of Uthal like so many scattered rag dolls. It had been fast and violent and confused. But now, as they rode forward, details began to emerge and he was horrified as he saw the red surcoats of Battleschool apprentices among the dead.
He saw one body, limp and lifeless as the stretcher bearers turned it over, and beneath the bl
ood and dirt that smeared the pale face, he recognized Paul, a Year 4 apprentice who had been an assistant sword drill instructor. Over the past months, as Horace's natural skill with the sword had become evident, he and the older boy had become casual friends. When Horace was hurriedly packing his kit for the trip to Celtica, Paul had come to the barracks to lend him a warm cloak and a pair of strong boots. Now he was dead and the debt would never be repaid. Horace felt a sense of emptiness and loss.
He glanced now at Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster's grim face told him that it was always this way.
Horace's throat was dry and he tried to ease it by swallowing. He felt a sudden stab of doubt. He wondered, if he were called upon to fight, whether he would simply freeze in fear. For the first time in his life, it had been driven home to him that people actually died in battles. And this time, he could be one of those people. He tried to swallow again. This attempt was no more successful than the last.
Morgarath and his remaining soldiers were in a defensive formation at the base of the cliffs. The soft marshy ground held the cavalry back and there was no option but to take the infantry forward and finish the job in bloody hand-to-hand fighting.
Any normal enemy commander would have seen the inevitable result by now and surrendered to spare the lives of his remaining troops. But this was Morgarath and they knew there would be no negotiating. They steeled themselves for the ugly task ahead of them. It would be a bloody and senseless fight, but there was no alternative. Once and for all, Morgarath's power must be broken.
"Nevertheless," said Duncan grimly, as his front rank stopped a bare hundred meters from the Wargals' defensive half circle, "we'll give him the chance to surrender." He drew breath, about to order his trumpeter to sound the signal for a parley, when there was movement at the front rank of the Wargal army.
"Sir!" said Gilan suddenly. "They have a flag of truce!"
The kingdom's leaders looked in surprise as the white flag was unfurled, carried by a Wargal foot soldier. He stepped forward into the clear ground. From deep within the Wargal ranks came a horn signal, five ascending notes-the universal signal that requested a parley. King Duncan made a small gesture of surprise, hesitated, then signaled to his own trumpeter.
"I suppose we'd better hear what he has to say," he said. "Give the reply."
The trumpeter moistened his lips and blew the acceptance in reply-a descending sequence of four notes.
"It will be some kind of trick," said Halt grimly. When the cavalry had swept through the Araluen army to attack the Wargals, he had resumed his place at the command center. Now he frowned at the enemy's latest move. "Morgarath will send a herald to talk while he's making his escape. He'll:"
His voice tailed off as the Wargal ranks parted once more and a figure rode forward. Immensely tall and thin, clad in black armor and a beaked black helmet, it was, unmistakably, Morgarath himself. Halt's right hand went instinctively to the quiver slung at his back and, within a second, a heavy, armor-piercing arrow was laid on his bowstring.
King Duncan saw the movement.
"Halt," he said sharply, "I've agreed to a truce. You'll not cause me to break my word, even to Morgarath."
The trumpet signal was a pledge of safety and Halt reluctantly returned the arrow to his quiver. Duncan made quick eye contact with Baron Arald, signaling him to keep a close eye on the Ranger. Halt shrugged. If he chose to put an arrow into Morgarath's heart, neither Baron Arald nor anyone else would be quick enough to stop him.
Slowly, the vulturine figure on the white horse paced forward, his Wargal standard bearer before him. A low murmur rose among the kingdom's army as men saw, for the first time, the man who for the past fifteen years had been a constant threat to their lives and well-being. Morgarath stopped a mere thirty meters from their front rank. He could see the royal party where they had moved forward to meet him. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the small figure hunched in a gray cloak on a shaggy pony.
"Duncan!" he called, his thin voice carrying through the sudden silence. "I claim my rights!"
"You have no rights, Morgarath," the King replied. "You're a rebel and a traitor and a murderer. Surrender now and your men will be spared. That's the only right I will grant you."
"I claim the right of trial by single combat!" Morgarath shouted back, ignoring the King's words. Then he continued contemptuously, "Or are you too cowardly to accept a challenge, Duncan? Will you let thousands more of your men die while you hide behind them? Or will you let fate decide the issue here?"
For a moment, Duncan was caught off guard. Morgarath waited, smiling quietly to himself. He could guess at the thoughts running through the minds of the King and his advisers. He had offered them a course of action that might spare the lives of thousands of their soldiers.
Arald moved his horse alongside the King's and said angrily: "He has no claim to a knight's privileges. He deserves hanging. Nothing more." Some of the others muttered agreement.
"And yet:" said Halt quietly, and they all turned to look at him. "This could solve the problem facing us. The Wargals are mind-bound to Morgarath's will. Now that we can't use cavalry, they'll continue to fight as long as he wills them to. And they'll kill thousands of our men in the process. But, if Morgarath were killed in single combat-"
Tyler interrupted, finishing the thought: "The Wargals would be without direction. Chances are they would simply stop fighting."
Duncan frowned uncertainly. "We don't know that:" he began. Sir David of Caraway interrupted.
"Surely, sir, it's worth a try. Morgarath has outsmarted himself here, I think. He knows we can't resist the chance to end this on a single combat. He's thrown the dice today and lost. But he obviously plans to challenge you-to kill you as a final act of revenge."
"What's your point?" Duncan asked.
"As Royal Battlemaster, I can respond to any challenge made to you, my lord."
There was a brief murmur at this. Morgarath might be a dangerous opponent, but Sir David was the foremost tournament knight of the kingdom. Like his son, he had trained with the fabled Swordmaster MacNeil, and his skill in single combat was legendary. He continued eagerly.
"Morgarath is using the rules of knighthood to gain a chance to kill you, sir. Obviously, he's overlooked the fact that, as King, you can be represented by a champion. Give him the right to challenge. And then let me accept."
Duncan considered the idea. He looked to his advisers and saw grudging agreement. Abruptly, he made up his mind.
"All right," he said finally. "I'll accept his right to challenge. But nobody, nobody, says anything in acceptance. Only me. Is that clear?"
His council nodded agreement. Duncan stood in his stirrups and called to the ominous black figure.
"Morgarath," Duncan called, "although we believe you have forfeited any rights you may have had as a knight, go ahead and make your challenge. As you say, let fate decide the issue."
Now Morgarath allowed the smile to creep over his entire face, no longer trying to conceal it from those who watched him. He felt a quick surge of triumph in his chest, then a cold wash of hatred swept over him as he looked directly at the small, insignificant-looking figure behind the King.
"Then, as is my right before God," he said carefully, making sure he used the exact, ancient words of challenge, "and before all here present, I do so make my challenge to prove my cause right and just to:" He couldn't help hesitating and savoring the moment for a second. "Halt the Ranger."
There was a stunned silence. Then, as Halt urged Abelard forward to accept the challenge, Duncan's penetrating cry of "No!" stopped him. His eyes glittered fiercely.
"I'll take my chance, my lord," he said grimly. But Duncan threw out an arm to stop him from moving forward.
"Halt is not a knight. You cannot challenge him," he called urgently. Morgarath shrugged.
"Actually, Duncan, I can challenge anyone. And anyone can challenge me. As a knight, I don't have to accept any challenge, unless it is issued by anoth
er knight. But I can choose to do so. And I can choose whom I challenge."
"Halt is forbidden to accept!" Duncan said angrily.
Morgarath laughed thinly. "Still slinking and hiding then, Halt?" he sneered. "Like all Rangers. Did I mention that we have one of your Ranger brats as a prisoner? So small, we nearly threw him back. But I've decided to keep him for torture instead. That will make one less sneaking, hiding spy in the future."
Halt felt the blood draining from his face. There was only one person Morgarath could be talking about. There was an ominous calm to his voice as he spoke.
"Turn him loose now, Morgarath, and I'll let you die quickly. Otherwise:"
He left the rest of the threat unspoken. But Morgarath saw the pale face and recognized the barely restrained anger in his old enemy. Obviously the Ranger brat meant something special to Halt. Then, instinctively, he recognized the truth. The boy was Halt's own apprentice!
"You really should have taken better care of your whelp, Halt," he said casually. "After I've finished with you, I'll see to him personally."
Halt felt a red surge of rage and hatred for the vulturelike figure before him. Hands reached out to stop him, but he shoved his horse forward, facing Morgarath.
"Then, let's get to it, Morgarath!" he said. "I acc-"
"Halt! I command you to stop!" Duncan shouted, drowning him out.
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