by Robert Ryan
The drums were large contraptions, covered in some thick, sun-bleached hide stretched taught over their wooden frames. Rusted iron rings hung from the sides, and long poles passed through them enabling four elug bearers to lift and carry them. And carry them they did, wherever the army went. A fifth elug served as the drummer.
Jinks veered toward them. As one his column of riders moved with him. There was a kind of channel between the supply wagons and the main host. Down this the column flowed like a river.
The drummers fled, but the pole-bearers held their ground and others came forward from the host to join them.
The hooves of the horses thundered. Jinks felt the blood of his body pound in his ears. The mad rush of battle was upon him, but not for nothing had he been made a captain. There was still a part of him that looked, analyzed and coolly considered. He had always been thus, and the greater the danger became the more this part of him came to the surface.
He saw at once that the elugs coming forward from the host were of a rarer breed. These were taller and stronger. They were better equipped too, drawing straight broadswords rather than the usual elug scimitar. The enemy was not as unprepared as they had looked. He must consider the possibility of a trap, but he was committed now, and trap or no trap, this attack was going to go ahead.
One thing, beyond any doubt, was to the advantage of the riders: the elugs did not carry spears. A defense could be made by warriors against cavalry, if they had courage, if they were battle-hardened and if they thrust a wall of spears before them. Without the spears, bravery was seldom enough.
Jinks led his men forward in their charge. The elugs held their ground, setting themselves for the clash about to come. The two forces drew close. Neither side flinched. Jinks took a deep breath. This was the moment; this was the moment that his people earned their place in Cardoroth. Or this was when his people died.
16. If Only I could See
Gilhain bit his lip. He did not normally show any emotion. As commander, it was his job, first and foremost, to be steady. Victory and defeat should not register on his face; that way men knew he was levelheaded, no matter the situation. That way he inspired confidence. He commanded first, and only allowed himself to feel emotion after his decisions were made. At least, that was what he strived for.
He stopped biting his lip. “If only I could see,” he said with vehemence.
Aranloth turned to him. “Well, if you cannot see, then I shall tell you what’s happening.”
The lòhren turned away to look over the battlement again, an expression of intense concentration on his face as he peered over the seemingly endless ranks of the enemy.
They all looked at him strangely. “Surely,” Gilhain said, “you can’t see that far?”
Aranloth shrugged but did not break his gaze. “I can use lòhrengai to enhance my senses. It’s no great thing, but it comes in handy. And Jinks, though you cannot see him, isn’t really that far away. What I’m doing is only a slight stretch of natural sight.”
Gilhain did not trust himself to answer. The lòhren made light of his powers, or else took them for granted as everyday things, but to others some of the things he could do were astounding. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he always shied away from revealing his abilities: it was yet one more thing that separated him from normal people.
The lòhren did not speak again for a little while, but when he did his voice, though low, held a thread of tension all the way through it.
“They ride,” he said. “Even as I watch, they turn and drive toward the rear of the enemy. The elug war drums are there, as we knew they would be. But they are not undefended. The riders move well – I didn’t know Cardoroth had such good cavalry. I trusted Jinks since first I met him, but he has done better even than I guessed. His men move with grace and precision.”
“I’ve kept a close eye on him, and on his training,” Gilhain said. “He commands a special troop. They are the best. The ordinary cavalry is drawn from Cardoroth’s aristocracy, and they are more or less chosen by hereditary. Jinks is different. I let him choose his own men, scoundrels mostly, but I let him do as he pleases, because he gets results.”
“They are good,” Aranloth nearly whispered. “I see now a band suddenly breaking away from their column and riding ahead of the others. They gallop parallel to the elugs. Now, they draw their bows. Short arrows fly. A spray of shafts thickens the air. Incredible! The riders turn swiftly. It’s marvelous to see. Back they come in the opposite direction and spray the enemy host again. What skill! They can shoot left and right handed, shifting their small bows as needed.”
Gilhain nodded. “Jinks introduced that himself. He picks ambidextrous men, and as I recall, he was proud of the innovation when he told me of it.”
“Now they turn again,” Aranloth continued. “They ride very close this time. The arrows fly once more. Behind them the other riders take up a new formation. The arrows flit through the air, and the elugs fall, though the small cavalry bows aren’t so powerful as to kill through armor, even just the hardened leather of the elugs. But many fall down anyway, wounded and bleeding.”
Aranloth paused, watching intently, and everyone held their gazes fixed to his face.
“Now they wheel away leaving a gap,” the lòhren went on. “The other riders surge forward. These have spears. They ride. They ride! Into the mass of the enemy they ride! There is a clash of flesh. Horses are down! Men have fallen with them. The elugs hack at the riders driving through their ranks, but the leather greaves on their shins help, and the speed and momentum of the horses helps more.”
Aranloth gripped the edge of the battlement. His fingers were white where they clamped around the stone, but his voice remained steady, though not without emotion.
“Elugs screech and yell. The riders ride on. The pennons on some of their blood-wetted spears stream behind them. They voice no battle cry, but they slay in silence. Wait!”
Aranloth fell silent a moment. His face paled. “Jinks is killed! Hold! The press of the enemy is in the way. I cannot see clearly. No. He is down, but not yet dead. Three elugs pulled him from the saddle. Now they are joined by others and they try to kill him, but riders drive into the fray. Jinks is up again! Now he leaps once more on his horse’s back and the riders all gallop on. He is at the rear of the column now. They wheel away!”
Gilhain watched his friend in silence. Almost the words of the lòhren drew a picture in his mind. He need not see the events unfolding far away to envision them.
“The archers come forth again,” Aranloth said, “and more arrows spray. This time they are set with fire. Those men were not idle while their comrades clashed with the foe. Oiled rags flare, hissing through the strife-torn air. I have never seen that before, not so many at once so accurately fired. The arrows fly from up close. The drums are struck. They are pierced many times, both through their frames and the tight skin drawn over their tops. Flames catch. They have not got all of them, but many, very many.”
Aranloth looked on grimly. He spoke slower now, his voice more measured.
“Yet more elugs rush forward. They try to put out the flames. The riders with spears come forth again. Jinks has planned for just such an event. The hard years of training show. They ride through and kill many. Among them now are some who cast their spears. But now they loosen water bags. I don’t understand. Ah! They’re not water bags but bags of oil. These they fling onto the burning drums and they burst. The skins must be very thin. And lo! Those drums they hit will not beat again!”
Aranloth laughed, and those around him grinned fiercely.
“Now they are off, all back in one column. They ride swiftly! Their work is done! Jinks leads them again. Now, they return.”
“How many drums did they destroy?” Gilhain asked quickly.
“Thirty or forty. At least,” Aranloth answered.
“And how many left?”
“Perhaps only ten,” Aranloth said after a searching glance. “And some of those are
damaged as well.”
“It’s as much as we could hope for. Perhaps even better than we could ever have hoped for. But how many elugs were slain?”
“Hundreds,” came the sure reply of the lòhren.
“That’s not really that many, but it never was going to be. This was about the drums, and uncertainty. We have taught the enemy that they’re not safe. No matter where they are. None are safe.”
“That is so,” Aranloth said. “But it’s not over yet. It’s not over by far.”
“Yes. They still have to make it back.”
“No,” Aranloth answered. “That’s not what I mean.”
17. All Dead Men, Now
Jinks kept riding. He was tired, and his horse more so. Not only that, there was a gash in its left foreleg. It bled profusely, but at least so far, it was not greatly hindering his mount’s speed.
The column needed to hasten back toward the gate if it was any chance of making it home: but before him Jinks saw opportunity.
His riders had achieved their goal with the drums. It would have an impact on the elugs, much more a mental one than a physical, for they believed in a range of superstitious nonsense. But nonsense or otherwise, what mattered was that they believed it. Therefore, the destruction of their drums would hinder them. But now, beyond hope or expectation, was an opportunity to inflict real and physical damage.
They had not known when they planned the sortie that there were supply wagons here, so close to the drums. The king knew more about elug armies than most, and Aranloth more even than he. They would have talked the situation over before they summoned him, but if they had known the location of the wagons, they had said nothing, calculating the risks of finding and attacking them too high.
And there was great risk. Already the enemy would be moving to cut off their retreat back into the city. At least they would be if they were half competent, and a captain who assumed that his opponent was incompetent was the kind of captain who never lived to lead his men for long.
Jinks rode on, the mass of the enemy to his left, the wagon trains to his right. He was undecided, but not for long. It was for such decisions that he had been given command. He had freedom of choice here; the king encouraged that in his leaders. He wanted them to show initiative, to be bold when required, and to be cautious also, when that was needful.
Cardoroth remained badly outnumbered. The outlook was grim. Now, if ever, was the time to be bold. And so Jinks made his choice.
He gave a signal to one of the men who rode near him. This rider withdrew a small horn and blew a shrill note. The column of riders knew what that meant, must have guessed themselves that it was coming. They would have seen the same opportunity that he saw, would have just as quickly calculated the risks. But they did not hesitate.
The archers peeled away from the main column. They unleashed a hail of arrows, killing many of the scattered guards who stood before the wagons. The other riders came in, engaging the remainder with sword and spear. While this happened, the archers rode among the wagons.
There were no fire arrows left, but there was oil. This they cast over as many wagons as they could. Jinks had a quick look inside some, and he saw that they were stacked with sacks of grain and dried meat.
The wagons were close together. Jinks, for all his worry of underestimating the enemy, shook his head. Foolishness. There were hundreds of wagons, all in close proximity. His men could not burn them all, but they could get some, perhaps as much as a quarter if they were very lucky. And fire spread in such conditions.
In now they all went, riding slow, skirmishing here and there as necessary. Many dropped down on foot, for the wagons were too close to ride between. There they set fire to their wooden bases and canvas tops. Up the wagons went in flames, and black smoke roiled into the heavens. Jinks had never seen anything so grim and so pretty at the same time.
Out now from the host charged thousands of elugs. An elùgroth came with them. Jinks gave a signal and the archers galloped forth to meet them. It was token resistance, for so few against so many could not prevail, even mounted warriors against infantry. But it would slow down the charge and allow time for just a little bit more damage to be done to the wagons.
More went up in flame. Waves of heat beat at the riders, and a great roar and crackling filled the air. Jinks knew it was time to withdraw. It was now or never. They were already in trouble. Too long they had delayed, but the chance to wreak such havoc was worth it. They were all likely dead men, now. But they would try to return.
Jinks thought quickly. They could flee, yet to where? The enemy possessed cavalry. They were not as good, but Hvargil’s force was a thousand strong. They would hunt the Black Corps down if they fled, for they could not allow such an attack to go unpunished. Nor could they allow such a force freedom to launch further assaults from the wilderness. It was better to fight now, to wreak more damage on the enemy and try to make it back to the city.
They swept out and away from the wagons to rejoin the archers. But even as they did so flame spurted from the elùgroth’s wych-wood staff.
Men went down. Horses screamed. Jinks signaled again and the man nearest him blew his horn. The riders gathered together, forming a column again, and they wheeled and shot away in one formation.
Yet there was more fire; fire that leapt and bridged the gap, fire that hit one man and sizzled before jumping like lightening to another.
More men died. More lives were lost. Lives that might have been saved had they fled earlier. But Jinks knew in his heart that he had made the right decision: not for his men, but for Cardoroth. And his men knew that too.
18. Something Stirs
The Halathrin warrior atop the tree stump looked straight at Brand. Somehow, the immortal knew he was awake, though he had barely moved.
The warrior gave a warning gesture, but he made no other move except to slowly turn his head back and forth to scan the darkness.
Brand woke Kareste. All it took was a light touch to her shoulder and her eyes flicked open.
“What is it?” She whispered.
“I don’t know. Something. Something out in the dark. Wake the others.”
She did not ask any questions, but straightaway slipped from her make-shift bed.
Brand, crouching low so that he was not silhouetted against the horizon, made his way to the Halathrin guard atop the tree stump. The warrior was tall and thin. His face seemed chiseled out of marble, and his eyes gleamed in the dark. There was very little light, for the cloud cover was heavy, but it was near dawn and the first traces of the rising sun grayed the eastern sky.
Even in the dim light Brand could make out the alert look on the immortal’s face.
“What is it?” he asked softly.
The Halathrin did not stop looking out into the dark, but he shook his head slowly.
“I don’t know.”
Brand waited beside him, silent and still. After a few minutes a light drizzle began. There was a pitter-patter of drops on the grass. The tops of the trees swayed at the touch of a slight breeze, and the air bit with a momentary chill.
Toward the center of the camp the near-dead embers of last night’s fire began to smoke, hissing faintly at the touch of the water drops.
The others were all awake now, waiting and still, prepared for something to happen. But prepared for what?
In the distance a nudaluk bird called, knowing that dawn was at hand. A great flock of night-flying ducks passed overhead, their wings beating the dark air and their calls loud as they sought out nearby wetlands.
And then there were eyes in the dark. Some sort of beasts wandered around. Brand could not see them properly, but likely enough they were creatures of the elùgroth.
Khamdar was near, very near, but there was no sign of him. Nor did the beasts attack.
“What are they waiting for?” Brand whispered to the Halathrin.
“I don’t know.”
The drizzle grew heavier. Smoke was now thick in the air, for t
he rising breeze had stirred the old fire to life. There was no point in putting it out though. The enemy knew where they were.
Then out of the silence there came a sudden but muffled noise. Brand looked toward the camp. Two of the Halathrin were down. They thrashed on the ground, their faces blue even in the pre-dawn light. But no enemy was there.
Brand did not know what to do. Should he go back to help? Should he keep his eyes on the dark perimeter whence any attack must come?
He ran back into the camp. The Halathrin still thrashed, but their movements were growing weak. He saw that their necks were broken, and a sickening feeling overcame him. How could that have happened? There was no enemy in the camp?
As he stood there looking around wildly, Harlinlanloth came up to him. She seemed cool and resolute, but he sensed her feelings beneath that mask: the death of her companions was painful to her on levels beyond what a mortal could understand.
“Elùgai,” she said definitively.
Brand cursed himself for a fool. Of course it was elùgai, of course it was Khamdar. And yet the sorcerer was not in their camp, and the beasts still did not attack.
Smoke roiled all around now, thick, swirling, turning and twisting under the influence of the breeze that had brought the drizzle.
A moment longer he stood there, undecided and uncertain, and then a realization hit him.
“The smoke!” he yelled. “The sorcery is in the smoke!”
He knew it was true, and even as he spoke the vaporous air grew suddenly hard. It was not yet around his throat, but he felt it creeping up his body like a disembodied arm seeking to strangle him.
Kareste was suddenly there. “The fire!” she yelled. “Put it out!”
But the smoke was everywhere now: tearing, twisting and tightening. And in the midst of the old fire’s embers, something stirred. Sparks flew. A column of flame rose from the ashes, writhing in the dark air. An image was in it, and it was the semblance of Khamdar.