On his right sat Hagen, armored and ready on his own war-horse. On his left was Sandivar, mounted on Waddle. The other lords were scattered up and down the line with their men, whose armor gleamed and lance pennons fluttered in the corpse-pale light. Then there came a sound as of distant, rolling thunder; and Helmut and Hagen and Sandivar and the whole army stood up in their stirrups and squinted into the fog-tattered gray of dawn.
What they saw there filled them all with awe. “By the Gods!” Hagen whispered. “Ne’er have I seen so many soldiers in one front. Look at them come! Look at them come!”
“Steady,” said Helmut calmly, and touched his arm. “Remember, each of those is but half a man.”
Still, they were a marvelous sight to behold; fifty thousand mounted and fifty thousand foot, and Helmut felt his heart thudding, a wild exuberance singing in him. He snapped orders to Luukah. “Archers forward and fires ready.”
“Aye,” said Luukah, and relayed the order. Moving up through Helmut’s horse soldiers came the archers, their quivers packed with long, straight shafts, their powerful bows strung and at the ready. This much advantage had they; because of the structure of their clawed hands, half-wolves were indifferent bowmen; but these human soldiers had been well trained with longbows that drew near a hundred pounds, and not a man of them but was an expert.
Now they made a solid phalanx out before the army, waiting. It was, thought Helmut, a pity there were so few. Had there been enough, that mounted charge would ne’er succeed. He watched it thunder toward him; the whole northern horizon of the Moor was lined with Albrecht’s army now, and the thunder rolled much louder. But they would not gallop yet; and so he snapped the orders again. “All stand fast.”
Meanwhile, the archers marched on forward. Each man nocked an arrow—and waited. In that moment, it seemed to Helmut, the whole world waited—and held its breath, and the thunder came nearer and nearer, and now the opposing army was at the gallop.
Albrecht was neither novice at warfare nor was he coward, and riding at his army’s van, the big war-horse moving smoothly under him, his strong yet cleverly articulated armor encasing him fully, he felt no fear, only exhilaration. There they were, drawn up in line, the smoke from their breakfast fires blowing toward him. And, ah, they had their archers to the fore, in Sigrieth’s style, hoping with their shafts dispatched from far away to pierce armor of man and horse alike and send the charging half-wolves into panic and confusion. Well, some would he lose, but not enough to hurt; and he himself was safe, for his own armor, and his horse’s could withstand any longbow arrow. There were not many archers and not many horse and not many footmen, and his army was spread out on a wide enough front so that when the centers met, his flanks could swing around and completely encircle what there were. There would be fierce fighting, but he welcomed that; he counted himself the equal of any warrior. And this crushing of the revolutionists before the frightened Kor would shame Kor and the barbarians and awe them, and make them easier prey when the time came for Albrecht’s army to turn against them. So he spurred his war-horse, eager for the impact of collision, and fixed his lance.
“Now!” Helmut said, and brought his arm down hard.
The archers loosed their arrows, then drew and loosed again and yet again and on and on—and the sky was suddenly full of arcing shafts that found their marks in Albrecht’s army. Some horses reared and fought when they were pierced; some half-wolves fell from saddle; there was some faltering and some confusion, but this was such a mighty army that the whole effort of the archers was like pricking a dragon with a pin. Helmut had not expected much more than that, but Hagen had; and he made a sound of disappointment in his throat as Albrecht’s army came on steadily and undeterred.
“They are closing,” he said, “and we have not hurt them yet.”
“We will,” said Helmut. “In a moment.” And now he turned in the saddle once again and waved to the men who tended the fires behind the lines. Those men picked up great armloads of the cut green boughs and threw them on the fire, and suddenly a wall of smoke arose—then, whipped by the south wind, blew forward.
Then Rage leaped from its scabbard; and Helmut waved it. The archers were running back behind the lines. “Charge!” he bellowed, and his trumpeter blew a blast. He reined Vengeance to the left and kicked him hard with spurs. The great horse leaped forward, and his hooves thundered on the ground. The dogs ran ahead; and the whole army followed Helmut, changing front immediately. The smoke, pushed by the constant wind, rolled ahead of him, whipped around him like pungent fog. He dropped the reins, for now Vengeance would manage himself, and readied too the right fist, the morning star. The smoke obscured everything. It whipped and billowed and rolled. Then he saw vague shapes looming out of it, mounted half-wolves bearing Wolfsheim’s coat of arms. And then there was collision and shock of battle.
Now Rage was never idle, nor the morning star. Nor for that matter was great Vengeance, who, with a sudden spring, a capriole, could destroy a mounted half-wolf with his hind hooves and another with his forefeet. Nor were his jaws without business, either; Helmut saw those great teeth fasten on a half-wolf’s head and drag the screaming creature from the saddle.
He slashed and slashed again, as mounted half-wolves closed with him; and at each blow, Rage claimed a victim. A half-wolf captain threw his horse against Vengeance at full tilt, trying to knock the mighty stallion down. Instead, his own went over from the impact; the half-wolf jumped nimbly free—only to die under the down-hammering impact of the morning star.
And above the turmoil, Helmut’s voice rose like a trumpet. “Boorn and Victory!” For there was no time to lose. They must dispose of the right wing of Albrecht’s army, their movements masked by Helmut’s smoke screen, before the center and the left could halt their charge, turn on them, and take them from the rear…
At full gallop, Albrecht braced himself for collision. There was none, for all at once before him loomed a gray, opaque, and rolling wall of smoke or fog, he knew not which, and what lay behind it no man could tell. Within his helm, his jaw dropped; then he gasped and coughed as pungency of burning leaves filled his lungs. A moment more without impact, and he understood—behind this wall of smoke, that army had suddenly changed front and had concentrated its whole force on a single wing of his. What he must do was turn about and take it from the rear. But he could not. The half-wolves behind him could not see and, dare he halt, he would be trampled to the earth. When fifty thousand mounted men were charging, one did not stop and turn them on a pinhead.
And so helplessly drove he on through the wall of smoke, though now he caught the sounds of combat to his right. The big war-horse, its heaving lungs full of all that sharpness, coughed, and he felt its flanks working beneath his thighs like a bellows. In a fury, he struck down a single man emerging from the mist—a footman with an armload of green boughs, and then the horse had jumped the fires and was out of the smoke. And still he could not stop, with all that thunder hard on his heels. His whole army must come through the smoke ere he could turn them and bring them back…
And there they came, all gasping and choking, red tongues lolling, red eyes running. Nor were their mounts much better; but now he could regain control. He called to Eero and his officers, and waving swords and lances, blowing trumpets, they sought desperately to get the army turned. Then, as all was confusion, horses milling, half-wolves growling, horns blaring, and no one with room to move, there was more thunder from behind. A great white horse emerged from the billowing smoke, and Albrecht’s heart jumped as he saw the iron fist its rider waved. Behind him came twenty thousand more and another twenty thousand foot; and they hit that wall of jammed-up, confused, and off-center half-wolves with the shock of a hammer striking iron. Nor did they strike its center, but its left wing, ignoring Albrecht while he stood in his stirrups and screamed and his trumpeter blared blast after blast. But that attack knocked one whole flank of Albrecht’s army loose, detached it and scattered it, while Albrecht tried to
rally the still intact center to smash it. And now pandemonium reigned, with horses screaming and half-wolves howling and swords swinging, and war cries rising. “Boorn and Victory! Boorn and Victory!” Over and over a deep voice shouted that one, and Albrecht, knowing that was the instrument of his defeat, if he were to be defeated, tried desperately to fight his way through to it; he had no fear of that one-handed man, and as soon as he could cut him down—
But he could not make it through the press, and now the half-wolves were breaking all around him. Something about this determined assault of men had cowed them in a way that he had not counted on—when the odds were with them, there were no fiercer fighters. And, indeed, along with reddened swords, many of them now had reddened muzzles as well. Yet, they were breaking, and the reserves must come—now the reserves must come. He seized Eero, who fought loyally at his side. “Kor!” he shouted. “Now Kor must come, ride through the smoke, and take them from the rear. Go and tell him I have said it! Go!”
“Aye!” and Eero plunged his horse into the melee, chopping his way as he went. Albrecht turned to fight again, and fight he did, with every ounce of strength and skill, rallying half-wolves on him, beginning to put together once again the semblance of an army—Now, if Kor but came, and quickly—Surely, he could already see the need.
But little indeed could Kor see from where he held his men in check across the Moor. That wall of smoke into which Albrecht’s army’d plunged had obscured everything—or, for that matter, was it smoke? Within it, he could see strange and weird shapes, even at this distance, giants and monsters and—Maybe they were shadows of fighting men, and maybe they were not. This was, after all, where men from hell had assaulted his father, Gondor.
Nor did his troops much like the sight, for they knew the legend as well as he. His captains bestrode their sharp-horned bulls and held their battle-axes at the ready, but their eyes were dubious. “Master, what happens there? Is that indeed smoke, or is it fog?”
“I don’t know,” growled Kor. He wished he were out of this. When he had joined with Albrecht, he had not bargained on fighting on the Moor of Yrawnn, and especially not in a swirling fog that might be man-made and might not… In a good clean battle, no one was fiercer than he, but… this Morning Star, Sigrieth’s son… there was something unnatural anyway.
Then Yono struck his shoulder. “Look, master!” From out the smoke came a galloping horse, going full tilt, and flogging it was a half-wolf officer. All looked alike to Kor, but he knew the mount and harness, and he growled, “It’s Eero.”
The horse ran like the wind, its neck stretched, its hooves drumming, and Eero bent low in the saddle. Then another apparition emerged from within the smoke, and Kor blurted an oath.
For it came after Eero at a shambling gait that seemed hardly any speed at all, and yet, incredibly, it was gaining on the horse—a huge brown bear with a man astride, clinging to its neck. Eero turned and saw it, and flogged his horse frantically. The bull on which Kor sat snorted and shook its horns uneasily. Kor’s second-in-command said, “Master. We must go to aid him—”
“No,” rasped Kor. “No. Stand fast.”
And so, the drama was played out before them all. The despairing horse gave its last ounce, that bear, almost house-size, seemed hardly even loping—but now it was alongside. Desperately, Eero turned in the saddle, raised high his sword as if to chop bear and man alike, but in that instant, his exhausted horse stumbled, fell, and Eero went flying to the ground. He landed hard, jumped up dazed, but he still had his sword. Kor saw his fangs bared beneath black lips as he faced the great brown animal confronting him. The bear reared on its hind legs, Eero lunged with his sword, and a single massive paw, catching him full, knocked him flying through the air, to land like a bundle of rags, arms and legs sprawled and twisted, and his head and neck all awry and broken. Then the bear dropped to all fours and, disdainful of the distant barbarians, loped back toward the billowing smoke.
Kor let out a long rasping breath. “You saw that, did you not?”
“Aye,” said his second-in-command in a voice that trembled.
“Was it not a sign, a portent, an omen?”
“Indeed. Master, let us pick another battlefield.”
“I think we shall. Let them kill each other off on the Moor of Yrawnn. We shall retire to the Jaal, and there we’ll await the outcome…” He raised a bull’s horn and on it blew a long and mournful blast. “Fighting men’s one thing,” he said, “but fighting devils is another…”
Then he began to turn his army around.
The men who tended them caught up in battle or killed, the fires burned down, the gray smoke cleared; and what was revealed then was a field of slaughter, where the killing yet continued fiercely. By now it was almost noon, and Albrecht knew that Kor was not coming. In the oyster-colored light of day, he saw, through the visor of his helm, the distant Moor where Kor’s army should have been—and there was nothing there. And all at once a coldness took him; for the first time in years he felt a dread fear of death.
And yet, in all that turmoil, he and Morning Star had not clashed. Glimpses he had of that terrible man on that great white horse, sword hacking, fist smashing—and the horse itself throwing half-wolves left and right. But there had been an army in between them, and now there was army no more—only a fearful heap of gray corpses in black armor or black leather, some elite companies fighting savagely, and himself, sword arm always busy, doing great damage with the Great Sword of Boorn, which it was the King’s entitlement to carry. That sword had been forged for Sigrieth, of Dolo steel, and it would hack through anything that came its way. But not even a master swordsman like King Albrecht, with such a master sword, could win the day alone. And now, he was afraid.
For over yonder Morning Star was fighting, and Sigrieth himself had never fought like that. And all at once, Albrecht knew he had to flee. The day was lost, the kingdom, the empire, and even his Wolfsheim dukedom. But he must save his life. And to do that he had to run, and run now before Morning Star caught sight of him or came at him.
And so, he pulled his horse, rearing high, around. Its shod hooves came down hard on two pikemen who tried to stab it, crushing them to the ground. Then he jabbed it with his spurs, and, crouched as low as possible in the saddle, with no thought of fighting now, save as his way was blocked, fled through the carnage…
He had seen Albrecht once or twice, but could not get to him. Too many wolfmen were there to slaughter first—but Wolfsheim had fought like a demon indeed, judging from those glimpses Helmut had caught. Now, he reined in Vengeance, whose sides were heaving mightily and whose jaws were bloody; and he called the dogs, Death and Destruction, with the yell of “Stirrup!” and they came, reluctantly but obediently. Helmut cradled Rage across his saddle bow and looked about, taking this moment to breathe.
So it had worked. Under smoke’s concealment, he had smashed each wing of Albrecht’s army separately, and then dealt with the center. And as he had guessed, hoped, estimated, Kor, fighter that he was, had no lust for fighting on the Moor of Yrawnn in an evil sort of murk against what could be spirits of the dead. Now Kor had fled, probably back to the Jaal to await developments, and could be dealt with later there. If the army hurried, it could catch him ere he crossed. But for this moment—where was Albrecht?
Helmut’s eyes swept the plain. It was a gruesome sight, and gruesome, too were the cries and moans and howls of the wounded. Above, against the leaden sky, the inevitable carrion crows and kites began to wheel. Fog, real fog and not his homemade one of smoke, whipped by in corpse-colored tatters. And in this shambles, in this wreck of battle, where was Albrecht? Surely the Gods could not have let him be cut down by another hand?
And then Helmut saw the figure bent low on the war-horse, the man in black armor filigreed with gold, the man wearing Wolfsheim’s device and wielding the Great Sword of Boorn. It was Albrecht indeed, and in full flight, out of the battle now and in the clear—and with such a head start that not ev
en Vengeance, with all his speed, could possibly overtake him.
But at Helmut’s stirrup-irons, Death and Destruction whined impatiently. He looked down at them, then at that distant, fleeing figure; and he nodded. He pointed and spoke commands they understood; and suddenly they were off, those two great steel-gray dogs, like arrows from a bow. Helmut touched Vengeance with his spurs and sent the charger after them.
All around him now, half-wolves fled or surrendered. No one offered battle as Vengeance pounded across the plain, leaping here windrowed bodies, crashing there through groups of fleeing wolfmen. Ahead, Death and Destruction wound and dodged through all the turmoil and ignored all else but the prey he’d commanded them to seek. Nor doubted he that they’d overtake it—no war-horse, tired with combat, burdened with a man in armor and its own armor, could outrun those two demon dogs…
And so, taking his time, he rode after Albrecht and saw the dogs begin to gain. They were clear of the battlefield now, on a part of the Moor that had not seen combat. Albrecht must have thought he’d clean escaped. But then Helmut saw him glance back and spot the wolfhounds coursing after him; and then he must have seen the one-handed man on the great white horse, for he flogged his own charger unmercifully.
The Sword of Morning Star Page 17