Then the Legion cornum rang out, a single clarion note that signaled the Agrotorae. A beautiful sound that promised only death to the Eirdkilrs.
In an instant, the five Legion companies split down the middle. Two hundred and fifty archers raced through the gaps, took up positions, and set about mowing down the enemy.
Aravon couldn’t help a grim smile. Keeper’s teeth, but that’s a beautiful sight!
An Agrotora could loose an arrow every five seconds and drive it into a bullseye at one hundred yards. Their longbows had an effective range of two hundred and fifty yards. With the same devastating precision Aravon had seen from Skathi, the archers nocked, drew, and loosed.
Thousands of arrows sang the mournful tune of death as they hurtled through the air. The rain of wooden shafts and steel arrowheads arced high into the sky and plummeted toward the Eirdkilrs. Scores of the massive barbarians fell in the first volley, and still the Agrotorae kept up their steady stream of missiles. By the time the Eirdkilrs had closed to within a hundred yards, nearly two hundred lay on the ground.
Up close, the Agrotorae no longer had to arc their arrows upward. Their longbows had a point blank range of up to a hundred yards. They picked their targets and brought down the Eirdkilrs with vicious efficiency.
Come on! Aravon realized he no longer moved, but stood fast, watching the battle from between a gap in the forest. He’d abandoned all thoughts of getting close to the Eirdkilrs' rear, his mind fixed on the impending fight. Every part of his being ached to be in that battle line, or to stand beside Commander Oderus and give the commands that would lead the Legion to victory. Not for the sake of personal glory, but to do everything in his power to keep those Legionnaires alive.
Yet he could do nothing—nothing but wait impatiently for the Legion horn to sound the Agrotorae's retreat and to signal the infantry’s advance.
But the horn sang a different tune.
Aravon’s brow furrowed. He’s sending in the cavalry. A loud cry rang out from the rear of the Legion ranks, and a column of mail-clad lancers thundered around the flanks of the front line.
Commander Oderus’ battle tactic was plain: mow down the disorganized Eirdkilrs with his lancers and let the infantry mop up the mess.
The horsemen cut an impressive sight. As they passed the shield wall, they fanned out to form a broad line of charging horses. Knee to knee they rode, their heavy plate mail brilliant in the bright sunlight. Like a wall of glittering steel and death, they lowered lances and charged the advancing Eirdkilrs. Their massive warhorses closed the distance to the enemy at a breathtaking fifteen miles per hour.
The maneuver caught the barbarians by surprise, doubtless as Oderus intended. The Agrotorae hadn't slacked off their fire, even though the Eirdkilrs were less than fifty yards away. The charging barbarians were so intent on closing the distance with their enemy that they failed to notice death bearing down on them from both sides.
Aravon sucked in a breath. By the Swordsman, it just might work!
The lancers tore through the ranks of Eirdkilrs. At two thousand pounds of solid muscle and bone, a warhorse could crush men beneath its steel-shod hooves. Though they wouldn't charge a solid wall of men, they had no problem trampling individuals. Bright steel lances punched through metal-studded vests, chain mail, and leather armor with ease. The jaws of Oderus' trap snapped shut and caught the foremost Eirdkilrs in the middle. The savages died by the scores.
Yes! Aravon bit back on a delighted shout—no sense giving away his position here or draw the Eirdkilrs’ attention to him and Colborn. Yet he couldn’t help feeling triumphant. Even if Oderus had been blockheaded, at least his plan had worked. The Eirdkilrs had taken heavy losses, and the battle had just begun.
The cavalry broke off their charge and circled back for another pass. It took them nearly a quarter of a minute to get their horses up to a rapid trot, but those seconds were well worth the expenditure. Those lancers would be effective as long as they maintained their momentum.
In the momentary lull, the Agrotorae sent another volley into the confused mass of Eirdkilrs. More barbarians fell, and the cries of the dead and dying echoed across the battlefield.
Hrolf Hrungnir sounded his horn, and the charging Eirdkilrs slowed and stopped. Again the barbarian horn blasted. Instead of resuming the charge, the huge fur-clad figures began to retreat.
Hah! Aravon pumped his fist in the air. They’re pulling back!
A shout of triumph rang out from the Legionnaires. They'd won the day with nary a casualty, while the Eirdkilrs had taken heavy losses. Even as the barbarians fled, the Agrotorae poured more arrows into their backs, bringing down scores more before the enemy was out of range.
A faint hope surged within Aravon. Perhaps Oderus was right to go with the cavalry, to take the battle to the Eirdkilrs here on the open field. The Eirdkilrs were fleeing, their ranks in disarray. Perhaps the Legion has a chance.
The Legion horn sounded, and the cavalry thundered toward the fleeing Eirdkilrs. The trumpeter sounded the signal for the five front companies to advance. Five hundred Legionnaires marched forward in strict unison. A gap opened in the ranks to allow the Agrotorae to fall back, then the shield walls closed. As they passed over the first Eirdkilr corpses, more cries of agony echoed. The rear ranks of Legionnaires dispatched the wounded and dying.
Out in front, the cavalry had closed on the fleeing Eirdkilrs. In moments, they would run down the rearmost. It would be a massacre.
That can’t be right. One look at Hrolf Hrungnir set Aravon’s spine tingling. The barbarian leader hadn't moved to advance or flee. He hadn't even drawn a weapon. He simply stood there, still and calm as a stone statue. Was it Aravon's imagination, or did a little smile toy at the barbarian's lips?
This is wrong. Aravon’s gut clenched, his nerves jangling. So terribly wrong. He had no idea how or why, but instincts honed over years of battle and study shrieked in his mind.
Then Hrolf Hrungnir placed the horn to his lips and blew.
Chapter Thirty-Three
At the sound of Hrolf Hrungnir’s horn, scores of Eirdkilrs boiled from the forest, racing toward their fleeing comrades.
Aravon sucked in a breath. What the bloody hell?
His confusion mounted as the Eirdkilrs made no move to charge the horses. Instead, they stopped and drew into a solid wall of shields, spears, axes, and clubs.
A shield wall? Aravon’s eyes flew wide. It can’t be!
Yet as the cavalry thundered closer to the Eirdkilr lines, Hrolf Hrungnir’s men made no move to charge. Instead, they stood their ground, shields interlocked, a solid barrier of flesh, wood, and steel.
Aravon’s blood ran cold. The retreat was a feint. Oderus had fallen for Hrolf Hrungnir's trap.
He could do nothing but watch the cavalry’s charge in silent helplessness—a charge he knew would fail.
The cavalry, intent on cutting down the retreating enemy, failed to notice the shield wall. They burst through the ragged ranks of barbarians only to find themselves facing an unbroken line. Their horses, equally caught off-guard, refused to charge the wall. The ranks of cavalry split like a wave crashing against a breakwater. The horses raced parallel to the ranks of Eirdkilrs as their riders struggled to get them under control. Many reared and plunged, throwing their riders. Eirdkilr axes, spears, and clubs put a brutal end to the unhorsed lancers. Weighed down by heavy armor, they could do little but scream in agony.
Those still mounted tried to bring their lances to bear on the enemy, but the long weapons were best when used at an enemy directly ahead. Their efforts did little more than slow them down, leaving them at the mercy of the Eirdkilrs. More fell never to rise.
Aravon’s eyes sought out Hrolf Hrungnir, but the Blodhundr leader was lost within the swirl of dust and battle. Keeper take you, you bastard! Acid rose to his throat as he watched the brave cavalrymen fall.
Less than half the lancers escaped. But instead of turning for another futile charge at the enemy, the
y wheeled and thundered back toward the safety of the shield wall. Howling in derision, the Eirdkilr archers loosed a storm of arrows at their backs. Missiles clanged off steel backplates and thunked into exposed human and horse flesh. Mounts screamed and collapsed, crushing their riders. Men slumped in their saddles, arrows punched through gaps in their armor. In seconds, the Eirdkilr archers slashed the number of horsemen to fewer than seventy.
Aravon's heart sank as he realized the extent of Oderus' folly. Convinced of his victory, he'd ordered the five front companies to advance. Legionnaires marched slowly to remain in formation, yet kept a steady, inexorable pace. They had covered half the distance to the Eirdkilrs, but their enemy no longer fled. They marched straight toward their own fleeing cavalry.
Pull them back, you fool! Aravon shouted in his mind. Get them out of there, now!
But the Legion horn remained silent. Doubtless the dust and din of battle obscured Oderus' view, and the commander could not see the danger his orders posed to his men.
In horror, Aravon watched the cavalry close the distance toward the infantry. A shining tide of silver, steel, and enormous warhorses that barreled down on the Legion shield wall like runaway death. He wanted to shout, to roar in rage, but could do nothing from his position. Nothing but watch the Legionnaires marching to their doom.
The Captains of the infantry companies seemed to realize the danger, and responded by ordering gaps to form in the ranks, making way for two columns of charging horses to pass. But the command came too late. The mounts, finding themselves confronted by another solid wall, turned aside to avoid a collision. Straight into the infantrymen scrambling to get out of their way. Men collided with each other in a chaotic tangle and fell beneath the flashing hooves of the terrified warhorses. Many were trampled by their own comrades in their attempts to let the cavalry through. Disorder gripped the ranks of the three companies caught in the center of the battlefield. The ripple effect spread outward to the two flanks, and the result was instant chaos.
Aravon's heart sank at the harsh cry of the Eirdkilr horn. The barbarians' howls split the air as they charged the knotted, trapped mass of men.
No! Hrolf Hrungnir had planned the chaos, had anticipated it, and now stood poised to take full advantage of it. With this single stroke, he’d turned the Legion’s most powerful weapon against them.
And still the Legion horn remained silent. The order to retreat never came.
A dagger of ice punched into Aravon’s stomach as the Eirdkilrs closed the distance. Fifty yards. Thirty. Come on! Twenty yards. Ten.
The Captains of the five companies fought to regain order. Shouting, barking commands, shoving men into a line.
Too late.
The ragged ranks of Eirdkilrs smashed into the disordered Legionnaires with a terrible crash. The din of battle filled the air. Men cried, groaned, shouted, and howled. Horses screamed and reared. Steel flashed bright in the sunlight. Blood misted in the air, ran through the grass, turned the dirt to mud beneath the feet of fighting and dying men.
A fist of iron gripped Aravon's heart as he watched the Legion's shield wall buckle and bend beneath the Eirdkilrs' charge. The line held, barely. The foremost ranks fell to the flashing axes, clubs, and spears of the barbarians. Horses thrashed about, striking out at friend and foe alike. Chaos held the battle line in an inexorable grip.
The Legion triumphed when they maintained their cohesion, but the Eirdkilrs reveled in the savagery of blood and death. They fought in a loose line, warriors instead of soldiers. With their ranks broken, the Legionnaires had no hope of standing against the Eirdkilrs.
Hope surged within Aravon as the Legion’s horn pierced the din of combat, yet it turned to horrified dismay in the next instant. Commander Oderus had sounded the attack.
No, you fool! He whirled toward the Commander’s position at the rear of the line, in time to see the four rear companies began to advance.
Aravon's blood ran cold. He’s going to get them killed! Throwing more men against the Eirdkilrs now would only add to the chaos. The barbarians would butcher their way through the entire Jade Battalion if those four hundred men advanced and tangled with the retreating cavalry and disordered infantry.
Keeper take it!
Before he realized what he was doing, Aravon leapt to his feet and sprinted out of cover of the forest. He ignored Colborn's cry and raced toward the Legion's side of the field. There, a handful of horses, their saddles emptied of riders, clustered in the shelter of the trees. Aravon rushed toward them, his boots pounding on the grassy field. The mounts shied away at his presence, a few even racing toward the safety of the Legion line. But desperation lent wings to Aravon’s feet. He managed to grab ahold of one horse's reins and calm it down long enough to vault into the saddle.
Arrows hissed toward him, thumping into the grass all around. The horse screamed as a shaft grazed its haunch. Ducking low in the saddle, Aravon dug his heels into the horse's ribs and galloped toward the Legion line at full speed.
He didn't waste time looking back for Colborn. The Lieutenant would find his own way. Right now, his concern was with the Legion. He had to stop them marching to their doom.
Aravon galloped toward Oderus' position at the rear of the battle line. The Commander’s guards raced to interpose themselves between him and Oderus.
Aravon flung himself from the saddle and stalked toward the trumpeter, not the Commander. “Sound the retreat,” he shouted. “Do it now, or the battle is lost.”
The trumpeter shot a terrified glance at Oderus.
“Snarl!” Oderus snapped. “What do you think you're doing?”
“Commander, if those four companies close ranks with the Eirdkilrs, every one of them is going to die on that field.” He had to shout to make himself heard through the mask and the din of the battle raging behind him. “The Eirdkilrs have broken your lines and routed your cavalry. They're moments away from overrunning your men. Sound the retreat NOW!”
Oderus opened his mouth to snap a reply, but one of his Captains cut off his reply. “Commander, the Eirdkilrs have broken through the front line!”
Oderus whirled. He squinted toward the battlefield.
“Commander, you must sound the retreat!” Aravon insisted. “It's the only way you walk away from this battle with enough men to mount a defense.”
Oderus opened his mouth to protest. Aravon knew what the man was going to say. “The Legion does not flee.” He'd heard his father say it a hundred times. It had gotten too many good men killed.
He whirled, his fist a blur striking toward Oderus. The blow caught the man in the jaw and snapped his head back. The Commander sagged to the dirt. His guards drew swords and moved to attack.
“Wait!” Aravon cried. He reached into his robes and produced the Duke's letter. “I have here a letter signed by Duke Dyrund himself, giving me full command of the Legion.”
One of the Legion Captains snatched the letter from his hands.
“See his signature at the bottom. It was written by his hands not five days ago.” Aravon fixed the man with a hard stare. “You can debate the merits of my action later. For now, let me do what the Commander would not and sound the Keeper-damned retreat!”
The five Captains hesitated. Two looked ready to cut him down where they stood, but the other three clustered together to read the letter.
One looked up at Aravon. “You swear on the Swordsman that this is genuine?”
Aravon snapped a Legion salute. “By the Swordsman, I swear it.”
The Captain nodded. “It will suffice for now.” He turned to the trumpeter. “Sound the retreat.”
The trumpeter obeyed, and the sound of his horn rang out across the battlefield. Immediately, the rear line paused their advance. After a moment, they began their retreat.
Yes! Faint hope glimmered within Aravon. We’ve got a chance, if they can just pull back!
The disengagement and retreat proved slow going. The Legionnaires had to march backward, maintain
ing their formation all the while. Worse, they had to watch their comrades in the front being hammered by the Eirdkilrs. Men died while they fled the battle scene. Aravon knew that had to rankle—Keeper knew he'd watched enough good soldiers fall for one day—but it was the right choice. The only choice. If they didn’t break off, the Eirdkilrs would slaughter half of Jade Battalion right here on the field.
Come on! Aravon gritted his teeth. The Legionnaires could only move so fast, yet it felt as if the retreat was going too slow. The Eirdkilrs would finish off the foremost ranks at any second, then they’d push on after the—
From the corner of his eye, Aravon caught a streak of motion. Four horses charged around the Legion's flanks. Skathi's flaming red hair streamed in the wind. Noll rode like a man born to the saddle. Zaharis and Belthar brought up the rear.
Where in the hell did they get horses from? The thought raced through his mind, accompanied a moment later by, What the hell are they doing?
Skathi, Noll, and Belthar pounded toward the Agrotorae. The ranks of archers tensed at their approach but made no move to fire.
Zaharis, however, charged straight toward the front line.
The bloody fool's going to get himself killed!
At the last moment, Zaharis swerved to bring his horse careening around behind the embattled lines of Legionnaires. His hands flashed toward the enemy. Moments later, a series of loud explosions shook the ranks of Eirdkilrs. Pillars of blinding bright fire fountained from the ground, throwing the barbarians back. Zaharis raced down the line, and wherever he went, more of the concussive blasts followed.
By the Mistress! Aravon's jaw dropped.
Zaharis' actions had an immediate effect on the battle. The explosions punched holes in the Eirdkilrs' lines, giving the Legionnaires a chance to regain a modicum of order. Shields went up, swords flashed out, and spears bit back at the enemy. Eirdkilrs fell before the Legion's discipline. The ranks of the enemy faltered, and a hair-thin gap opened between the battle lines.
Shields in Shadow Page 27