And then the two armies raged into one another, and swords and hand axes hacked and slew. Daggers stabbed and maces smashed and Men fell screaming, wounded and dying.
To left and right and to the fore and behind Reyer his kingsguards fought. Yet still the numberless foe bore down upon them, and many broke through the ring. Reyer’s sword licked out like a steel tongue upon the foe, and left naught but slain men after. At his right, Conal kicked a Garian in the groin as he pulled his blade free of a Chabbain, and then his own edge sliced and reaved and hacked, meting out destruction in its wake. On Reyer’s left Aarnson bashed down a Fist of Rakka and stomped on his neck, breaking it, and then he wove steel upon other foe, fending strikes at Reyer, while at the same time dealing death. Blood flew wide in this brutal craft; guts spilled, releasing their loads; screaming throats chopped short their shrieks as blades slashed through; bones broke, shattered by morning stars and maces; and all was accompanied by the shouts and curses and cries of men fighting for their very lives.
And the Alliance was driven back and back, taking a dreadful toll on the enemy for every foot yielded. Yet for every foe slain, two stepped into the gap, and the Alliance gave way, leaving their own dead and dying behind.
“They are too many,” cried Conal. “Reyer, you must flee, while the rest of us fight a rear guard for you.”
“No!” cried Reyer, fending a tulwar blow and counter striking to bring down a Fist of Rakka, and then he backhanded the pommel of his sword to smash into the face of an Albaner. “I promised the men I would live or die with them, and I’ll not break that oath.” And with blood flying, Reyer and Conal and Aarnson fought on, kicking, bashing, stabbing, hammering, cutting, and falling back and back and ever back.
And upon the slopes above, running and stopping and loosing arrows, only to run again, across the hillsides Warrows and Elves fell back with the Alliance, Vanidar with his silver-handled white-bone bow singing a deadly tune, as did sing those of the other archers.
Though the Alliance gave as good as it got, and perhaps even better, still Arkov’s men pressed inward, their numbers clearly yielding them the dominant hand, as deeper into the choke point they drove and slew and were slain.
And the battle raged for a seeming eternity, though it was but a candlemark or less; yet then, of a sudden, horns sounded. And the Southers hearkened to the call. As if it were a signal they had been expecting, the Chabbains and the Fists of Rakka and the men of Thyra and Hurn withdrew, leaving naught but the men of Garia and Alban behind to fall by the numbers, ere they turned and fled after.
Wounded and bloody and somewhat stunned, the men of Reyer’s army gaped after Arkov’s retreating forces. The Alliance had been thoroughly beaten, yet somehow they had been given a reprieve.
And still the horns sounded, and marching into view came the thirty thousand Chabbains.
“What th—?” Digby began.
“Come back, you bloody scuts!” shouted Perry, winging a futile arrow after.
“Waste not thy shafts, Wee One,” said Aliser. “I fear on the morrow thou wilt need even more than thou didst spend today.”
Perry shook his head and gritted, “There’s plenty more out there.” He pointed at the fallen, many with arrows jutting. “We only need to retrieve them and trim them to size.”
• • •
“IT APPEARS ARKOV IS RAGING,” said Silverleaf, his sharp Elven gaze locked upon the enemy camp.
Reyer, Vanidar Silverleaf, Conal, Perry, and Digby stood upon the southern slopes of the Gap. Down below, men, some of them weeping, others retching, and yet still others silent and grim, hauled away their dead. As well, Alliance warriors dragged slain enemy off to the sides, making a barrier of them up on the flanks. At the rear of the army, the wounded were being cared for, Riessa and the bulk of the Dylvana aiding in that chore.
Reyer looked at Silverleaf. “Arkov, you say?”
“I am certain he is the one raging,” said Vanidar. “He wears a crown and has the High King’s standard at hand: Golden Griffin upon scarlet.”
“Thieving dastard!” snarled Perry. “That’s your sigil, King Reyer.”
“Remember, Perry,” said Digby. “Arkov is a usurper, so naturally he would—”
“I said,” snarled Perry, “that’s Reyer’s sigil.”
Digby fell silent.
“I suspect Arkov is raging at the Chabbains’ withdrawal when we were all but conquered,” said Conal.
War Commander Rader came trudging up to the hill where Reyer and his comrades stood.
“Twenty thousand, about,” said Raden.
“Ours or theirs?” asked Conal.
“Ours: dead and wounded.”
“And theirs?”
“Some thirty thousand, now all dead, though, no doubt, some of their wounded made it back to their lines.”
“Three to two, eh?” said Digby.
Reyer nodded. “Three to two. Still that still leaves us outnumbered: with their reinforcements replacing their slain, they are again at ninety thousand, whereas we now have but forty.”
“Oh,” said Digby, his face falling. Then he brightened and said, “But, if as the commander says, some of them who retreated were wounded, that cuts the odds down a bit.”
“That would still leave us woefully outnumbered,” said Conal.
Raden sighed and said, “Much as I hate to say it, my lord, we should withdraw in the night. Live to fight another day.”
“Even should we withdraw,” said Reyer, “Arkov will pursue, and we will yet be outnumbered.”
“But not outmanned,” said Raden.
“Ahem,” said Digby, adding, “nor out-Warrowed or out-Elved, either.”
Conal smiled, then said, “King Reyer is correct. No matter our decision—stand or withdraw—Arkov will come at us again.”
“Then let us fight here and now,” said Rader, “where we have a choke point. If we are to die, we’ll take many down with us.”
“What if I meet Arkov in single combat?” asked Reyer.
“I think he will not take up the gauntlet,” said Conal.
“Then I and I alone can surrender, gaining the men of the Alliance their freedom.”
Following a chorus of protests, Conal said, “Again, I think Arkov will refuse. He clearly has the upper hand.”
“Besides,” said Raden, “he would not have the rest of us set free to plot his overthrow.”
“You may be right, Commander, still I can but try,” said Reyer.
• • •
WARROW AND ELVEN SCOUTS slipped through the dark, ready to warn the Alliance should aught occur in the night, whether Reyer decided to offer single combat or to surrender or to stand and fight.
But at the mid of night, there came a great stirring among the enemy.
In moments the screaming began.
“What th—?” hissed Digby, out on the southern flank of the foe.
“Let’s move closer,” said Perry, and he and Digby crept through the tall grass until they were all but in the enemy camp.
Steel skirled on steel, and shouts rang through the night.
“They are fighting among themselves,” said Digby.
Horses hammered away in the dark, running easterly.
“Look,” hissed Perry, and by the firelight they saw a Chabbain throw down the griffin standard, and raise the one of Chabba in its stead.
Now the buccan could see dark men dragging corpses toward the fringes, and Digby and Perry slipped hindward as foe came their way.
In a candlemark or two, dead bodies lay everywhere, and in the camp the Askars of Chabba and the Saranian Fists of Rakka and their allies from Thyra and Hurn celebrated.
• • •
“THEY KILLED ALL OF ARKOV’S MEN,” said Digby.
“Aye,” agreed Riessa. “The men of Alban and Gari
a: all murdered.”
“Some of the Southers were killed as well,” said Jem.
“How many, think you?” asked Conal. “Total dead, I mean.”
“By our count, at least fifteen thousand Garian and Albaners,” said Captain Windlow. “Nearly all of their throats were cut.”
“Slain in their sleep,” said Conal.
“Then this was planned,” said Reyer.
“Aye,” said Silverleaf.
“Yet, why?” asked Raden.
“Perhaps they covet the High King’s throne for themselves,” said Riessa.
“Souther treachery,” said Windlow.
“I add,” said Aliser, “some five thousand others of theirs also lie dead. Mayhap from the fights during the treachery, mayhap from wounds taken in the battle today.”
“Then that leaves, um, something like seventy thousand enemy on the field, should we meet them tomorrow in battle,” said Alric.
“What of Arkov?” asked Reyer.
“We know not,” said Riessa.
“Mayhap he escaped the slaughter,” said Digby.
Frowning, Perry looked at Digby.
“Remember, Perry, we heard horses gallop away to the east.”
“If he is gone, I cannot challenge him to single combat,” said Reyer.
“Bah,” growled Raden. “With this skulking overthrow, it would have been meaningless regardless.”
“I think, then, we must meet them in battle,” said Alric.
“I say, let’s do it,” urged Perry.
“Forty thousand of us against seventy thousand of them,” said Reyer.
“We yet hold the Gap,” said Riessa.
“And we still have a cavalry,” said Axton, “whereas they do not.”
“Four thousand horse,” said Reyer.
“There is this,” said Silverleaf. “In past wars, when the Chabbains lost most or all their jemedars, they also lost heart. Can we slay them—the jemedars—the Askars might throw down their arms.”
“Jemedars?” asked Perry.
“Their commanders,” said Conal.
“’Tis a gamble,” said Aliser.
“How will we know which are the jemedars?” asked Digby.
“We need to know where to aim,” added Perry. “Which ones to kill.”
“I ken their ilk,” said Silverleaf.
“And I will also point them out,” said Driu. “I might be blocked from
All eyes turned to Reyer, and Conal said, “’Tis yours to choose, my King.”
Reyer stared at the ground and pondered long moments, while none said aught. Finally, he looked up and said, “As Sir Perry says, let’s do it.”
“Art thou certain?” asked Riessa.
Reyer glanced at Alric and said, “As my blood-sworn brother would remind us, there is an old Jordian saying: Lady Fortune favors the bold.”
“Yes!” said Alric, clenching a fist.
And so it was that the High King’s army did not withdraw that eve. Instead, facing daunting odds and chancing all in a desperate gamble, they remained at Gûnarring Gap.
• • •
DAWN CAME.
The sun rose.
In Gûnarring Gap, the Alliance stood ready, the ranks arrayed in battle order, with Raden to the fore on this day. Concealed behind, Viscount Axton and the cavalry cinched saddles and checked lances, Alric among them.
King Reyer and Dara Riessa strode among the men, bucking up their spirits, while at the same time assuring them that come what may, they had been noble in their cause. Conal, trailing in their wake, said, “This day will be remembered through all time, and to your children and grandchildren you will say of this day, ‘I was there.’”
Up on the hillsides, archers waited to target the jemedars, Driu on the southern slopes with a number of the Dylvana and Perry and Digby and Squad-leader Jem’s half of Captain Windlow’s Warrow band. On the opposite slopes stood Billy’s half of the Warrows along with the remaining Dylvana, with Silverleaf to direct their arrows; he, too, could tell them which of the foe were the commanders to target, for in the past he had battled their like.
Out before them and in their own camp the Chabbains, Saranians, Thyrans, and Hurnians stood, their numbers far in excess of those of the Alliance. And they jeered and capered, for they knew they would take the day.
“Come on, you slime,” gritted Perry, glancing their way as he reset an arrow point. “Come taste death.”
As did most of the Warrows, both Perry and Digby sat with their backs to a boulder and trimmed the recovered arrows to length and refitted the heads and fletched as needed.
And they, along with the rest of the Alliance, waited for the battle to begin.
Finally, one of the Chabbains rode to the fore. He raised a scimitar, and one of their twisted animal horns sounded a long drawn-out note. With that signal his troops stopped capering, and they all faced forward and stood ready.
“There’s my first target,” said Perry.
“The one in the lead?” asked Digby.
“Right, bucco.”
“Well, I’ll wager I feather him before you do,” said Digby.
“You’re on, Diggs,” said Perry, grinning.
Yet both continued trimming and fitting and fletching.
And the Chabbain sidled his horse ’round and looked at his ranks, then he turned once more to face the Alliance. And he slashed his curved blade down.
Horns yawled, and men shouted, and the enemy charged. . . .
And the Alliance ranks parted, and Axton’s cavalry thundered through, Alric in the fore.
“Which are the jemedars?” called Captain Windlow, as the enemy came on.
Driu said a
“Barn rats!” shouted Perry. “Barn rats!”
“What?” cried Digby.
“Look!” Perry pointed. . . .
. . . And Digby’s gaze followed Perry’s outstretched arm just in time to see . . .
. . . Alric’s lance pierce into and through the Chabbain on the horse.
“He took my target,” growled Perry.
“Mine, too,” said Digby, even as Viscount Axton’s cavalry plowed into the lead ranks, “but I don’t begrudge it.”
They were quickly surrounded, but they hacked their way free and out to the side, even as the bulk of the enemy flowed onward like a rushing tide.
The front ranks of the Alliance threw up their shields, and yet, with a mighty crash, the Askars and Fists and Thyrans and Hurnians slammed into the front line and drove them hindward.
The main body of the foemen pushed forward, and arrows sissed from the hillsides, and jemedars fell. Yet shafts flew in return, and both the Dylvana and the Waerlinga took dreadful wounds, and Jem and Captain Windlow fell slain.
Of a sudden, Digby cried, “Perry! Perry! Alric is down!” and he took off at a run.
Out in the grass just beyond the edge of the Gap, Alric’s horse lay slain, and Alric, an arrow jutting up from his chest, struggled to regain his feet but fell back, floundering, even as several of the Fists of Rakka took note of the fallen lad.
Perry and Digby were in a flat run toward Alric, and, even though dashing, they loosed arrows, some finding their mark, and they drove the Fists back.
Yet Hurnians and Thyrans rallied, and started for Alric as well, just as Digby and Perry reached his side.
“Barn rats, but I think we’re in trouble,” shouted Perry, loosing shafts at the oncoming foe.
Digby knelt beside the youth. “He
has swooned,” said Digby. “But he yet breathes.”
Digby then leapt to his feet and joined Perry in loosing deadly arrows. Yet even more turned their way and, shouting oaths, charged.
“Come on!” shouted Perry. “You Gyphon-sucking stinking piles of—”
Of a sudden, the onrushers shrieked and bolted hindward.
“What th—?” said Digby, just as . . .
. . . “Châkka shok! Châkka cor!” Four thousand armed and armored Dwarves thundered past and, axes dealing death, charged into the foe, even as . . .
. . . Rounding the shoulder of a hill, from the north ten thousand black-oxen horns called upon weary steeds to give their uttermost in a noble charge, and proud horses responded, for they were Jordians all. Silver horns rang, too, Elven horses answering the call. Thus did they arrive in the nick: King Ulrik and ten thousand Vanadurin and five hundred Lian, and Durgan on Steel, spears leveled, sabers clutched, thundering death . . .
. . . With seven Silver Wolves leading the charge.
Caught between the hammer of the Harlingar on one flank, and the anvil of the Châkka on the other, and ’twixt the surge of the remnants of the Northern Alliance to the fore and the Lian Guardians of Darda Galion to the rear along with the survivors of Viscount Axton’s Wellener cavalry, and with seven snarling, slashing Silver Wolves midst all, the Chabbains knew not which way to turn. And horses ripped through, trampling dark warriors underfoot, spear-lances impaling and sabers cleaving, while Châkka double-bitted axes hewed, and Warrow and Dylvana shafts pierced, even as Elven swords rived and savage ’Wolves rent flesh, and Alliance men afoot shouted “King Reyer! King Reyer!” their own blades hacking and maces bashing as they charged among the panicked Chabbains, stabbing, felling, slaying.
And assailed from all sides and with nearly all their jemedars slain, the Askars and Thyrans and Hurnians threw down their arms and surrendered, but the fanatical Saranian Fists of Rakka did not and were slain to the very last man.
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