Kelemvor didn’t see the Zhentish arrow pierce Mawser’s throat. The thin man was dead before he hit the ground.
But the trap worked. The trees crashed down on the Zhentish soldiers, killing or injuring at least a third of them. Kelemvor let out a yell, and the dalesmen followed his lead. Though the plan had been carefully orchestrated, no one was ever really positive that it would work. But, now, as the fighters and archers from the Dales watched Bane’s men scramble to save themselves from the incredible network of falling trees, they had no other option but to believe their senses.
Luck is with us this morning, Kelemvor thought, as he broke from his blind and signaled for the next phase of the attack to begin.
Hawksguard had stationed a group of archers in the forest behind the falling trees, and any of the bowmen who had retreated from positions farther east on the road to Voonlar also knew to fall back to the trees behind the trap. Now that the trap was sprung, the archers fired down into the tangled maze of fallen trees that lined the road. They loosed their arrows at any hint of movement in the trap, and hundreds of Zhentish soldiers who had escaped being crushed were killed or wounded by the archers. Despite the efforts of the archers, despite the fall of the gargantuan trees, Bane’s troop still pressed on.
From his position in the trees west of the trap, Kelemvor caught a glimpse of the remainder of the Zhentilar. Already they were attempting to advance, even though they could do little more than crawl beneath the fallen trees or climb over them. The Zhentish cavalry that was not crushed in the attack had been rendered useless. Kelemvor’s ground forces waited near the edge of the forest. He had hoped that even if the traps didn’t rout the Zhentilar, the dalesmen’s layered defense would at least slow the God of Strife’s troops down.
If Bane’s troops pushed past the tree trap, Kelemvor’s men would rush out and attack. Then, if things went badly, they would pull back and the archers would provide covering fire for them. If things went well, the Zhentilar might be forced back to the wall made by the fallen trees, where the archers from the dale could continue to cut them down with little fear of return fire. If Bane’s men were foolish enough to enter the forest to get at the archers, they’d be wiped out by Kelemvor’s troops, who knew how to fight in the forest far more effectively than the Zhentish.
Kelemvor had not planned for the power of the wizard Sememmon, however. The information Mourngrym had received from Thurbal indicated that Bane had placed a prohibition on the use of magic, as magic was unstable and thus unreliable in so important a conflict. Few magic-users would even be allowed to march against the Dales, and those powerful mages that were allowed to fight, like Sememmon, were made officers.
Now, Sememmon stood in the easternmost section of the road hit by the tree trap. One of the trees hung just over his head, as if it had been stopped by a wall of force. The top section of the tree, past the magic-user’s defenses, had fallen to the ground, its trunk shattered. Then the wizard walked out from under the tree and released his spell. The oak crashed to the ground, and Sememmon turned and called out to his men.
“We must use magic to push through this trap or we’ll be slaughtered,” he cried. “Bane be damned!” Then the mage quickly spoke an incantation and threw another spell.
Ten massive fireballs blasted a path through the tangle of trees before Sememmon, killing the Zhentish soldiers trapped beneath them and setting the tangle of trees ablaze. “No!” the wizard screeched. “That isn’t the spell I called!” He attempted another spell. The ground seemed to shake, as if an earthquake had been called into existence. A symphony of cries erupted from the frightened soldiers surrounding the magic-user.
“You’ll kill us all, you fool!” someone shouted.
Sememmon recognized the voice, despite the cacophony of sound from the road. “Knightsbridge,” he said in hoarse wonder. “You survived—”
Before the shocked wizard could finish his sentence, Knightsbridge struck him with the flat of his sword. The tremors stopped as Sememmon fell.
“Onward for Bane!” Knightsbridge yelled. “Onward for glory!”
A cadre of archers from Bane’s army fired flaming arrows into the trees where the archers of Shadowdale had been stationed. Some of the dalesmen fell, others managed to make their pre-arranged retreats. Waiting with his men, Kelemvor felt a moment of panic as he watched the fire the Zhentish had created. If the flames spread in the forest, a blaze of unimaginable proportions could begin. If the woods burned, it would only be a matter of time before the fields of the dale were caught in the inferno, and all of Shadowdale would be destroyed.
A young lieutenant named Drizhal, a boy less than twenty winters old, stood at Kelemvor’s side, sharing the fighter’s concerns. The gangly youth was running a hand nervously through his bright yellow hair as he listened to the veteran warrior.
“If only there was a magic-user at our side,” Kelemvor said. “I finally understand Mourngrym’s frustration at Elminster’s decision not to join the battle at the front. We’re faced with this blaze while that old relic is off preparing some ‘arcane defense’ of his own.”
“It isn’t fair,” Drizhal said, his voice cracking.
Kelemvor looked to the younger man. “Are you afraid?”
Drizhal said nothing, his expression telling all.
“Good!” Kelemvor said. “Fear keeps you sharp. Just don’t let it get in the way.”
The youth nodded, his terror seeming to lessen.
On the besieged road, Knightsbridge led the Zhentilar through the smoldering gauntlet of fallen trees. As the troops passed him, the wizard Sememmon rose on uncertain legs and attempted yet another spell. The men on every side of the wizard scattered as best they could, fearful of the unpredictable effects of magic.
Bolts of flaming red energy left the wizard’s hands, then went wild as an arrow from one of the archers of Shadowdale pierced the mage’s shoulder. Sememmon fell, and the bolts of energy flew over Knightsbridge’s head and carved a path into the trees near Kelemvor. The wizard screamed in pain as a pair of soldiers dragged him to safety.
Knightsbridge saw the dalesmen scattering from where Sememmon’s bolt had cut through the trees and ordered the Zhentilar to attack while the enemy was still in confusion. If Bane’s army was fatigued from the night of marching through enemy territory, facing death with every step, it didn’t show as they charged toward Kelemvor’s men. The Zhentish seemed renewed, hungry to finally pay back some of the agonies that had been inflicted upon them during the trek from Voonlar.
Near the western edge of the forest, Kelemvor quickly gathered the leaders of his assault teams. Drizhal remained at the fighter’s side.
“There’s no chance of dragging them into the woods,” Kelemvor said. “All we can do is face the enemy directly and try to keep them from breaking through to Shadowdale too quickly. We’ll implement a layered defense right here and try to slow them down.”
The leaders hurried to their men and informed them of the plans as Kelemvor watched Bane’s army emerge from the opening the wizard had created in the fallen trees.
* * * * *
The last of the refugees had left down the Ashaba, and none of the soldiers had left their posts at the bridge to join their brothers at the eastern front. Nevertheless, Cyric skirted the length of the bridge every hour, checking and rechecking its defenses and keeping the men alert.
The thief was on Forester’s side of the bridge, opposite from Shadowdale, when the sounds of the battle in the west reached him. The men on the other shore started talking loudly. Cyric turned to Forester.
“Keep to your position,” the thief said. “I’d better go warn the others to settle down.”
Cyric climbed up onto the bridge. He was almost to the gateposts when he heard the sound from the road to the west—riders approaching at a gallop. The thief scrambled back to the ditch and signaled the fighters at the other bank. Then he readied his long bow.
“You wished for death and glory, you might g
et it yet!” Cyric whispered, and Forester smiled as he drew his sword. Then the thief turned to the other men near him. “Follow the plan. Wait until the last of them is upon the bridge, then move on my signal.”
It seemed an eternity before the Zhentilar arrived. But at last the sounds of the riders crossing the bridge filled the dalesmen’s ears, and Cyric watched as two dozen armored warriors passed overhead, nervously looking over their shoulders. No other troops were in sight on the road, so Cyric signaled the attack.
The Zhentilar had no chance. Cyric’s bow laid out two of the soldiers, and a squad of men surged up from the trenches on either side of the river and attacked. Forester hacked away at the Zhentilar with glee, and as the last of the enemy fell, Cyric heard his men shout “For Shadowdale! For Shadowdale!”
There were sounds from the road to the west, and Cyric turned in time to see horsemen breaking from the trees in the distance. An army of riders led by a red-haired man on a beautiful warhorse was charging toward the bridge. Cyric saw that there were at least two hundred men heading their way.
“Ride on!” Fzoul shouted, and the wall of attackers closed on the bridge.
As Cyric ran, the eastern end of the Ashaba Bridge seemed to be moving away from him, not getting closer. The bridge was a little more than a thousand feet long, but it seemed like miles to the thief as he ran across it, an army closing in from behind. Forester and a handful of men were at Cyric’s side as he ran.
The eastern bank was ahead of them when they heard the sound of Bane’s army moving onto the other end of the bridge. Cyric saw that none of the Zhentilar were stopping on the western bank of the river, so the men that were hidden at the base of the bridge, right beneath the Zhentish troops, were safe. Everything was going according to their plan. That frightened Cyric. Nothing ever went exactly according to plan.
“Do you think it will work?” Forester said as they reached the eastern bank.
How should I know? Cyric wanted to say. Instead, he said, “Of course” and jumped for the bank.
Fully expecting an arrow to pierce his back just as he left the stone bridge, Cyric suddenly felt moist earth beneath his feet and realized he had made it across. Forester and the others were still beside him.
“Now for the hard part,” Cyric said, almost out of breath. The thief turned and faced the oncoming horde and heard the telltale sounds of metal pulleys creaking beneath the bridge.
“At least two hundred are on the bridge. Mostly cavalry,” Forester whispered.
There were more sounds. Men grunted as they pushed away the stones concealing their hiding niches in the pillar supports. Cyric hoped the splashes as the heavy stones hit the water wouldn’t alert the Zhentilar on the bride to the trap.
“They’re more than halfway across!” someone screamed.
“Do it, Cyric!” Forester hissed.
“Retreat!” Cyric screamed at the top of his lungs. Then Cyric and Forester ran as if Bane himself were chasing them, and they split up as they ran to the Twisted Tower so as not to present an easy target.
“Any time now,” Cyric whispered.
Nothing happened.
Forester stopped before he reached the tower. Cyric stopped as well. “They didn’t hear you,” Forester cried.
“They must have heard me!” Cyric snapped.
They both turned toward the bridge. The main body of the army was approaching the eastern bank, and a few horsemen had already made it across. Cyric and Forester ran for the bridge.
“Retreat!” they screamed.
Still nothing happened.
Cyric cursed himself. If he had not listened to the men from Suzail Key, this situation would not exist. He wanted to set more reliable traps, but they wouldn’t listen.
“Retreat!” Cyric cried again.
Either the men under the bridge heard him this time or they got tired of waiting for the command and took matters into their own hands. Whatever the reason, though, they started to remove the flat-hewed logs that had been placed inside the holes where the keystone supports had once been. Then the men at the center of the bridge swung out from under the bridge on ropes, and their weight exerted the force necessary to break the weakened center support. Finally, the other supports for the bridge shattered and collapsed, too. The Zhentish soldiers shouted in surprise as the bridge fell away and the wildly churning Ashaba loomed up toward them.
Even Fzoul was stunned by the sight of the massive bridge falling. The red-haired man, who had already reached the eastern bank, turned in his saddle and stared. In seconds, there was nothing left of the bridge. Less than twenty of Fzoul’s men had made it to the eastern bank. On the western bank, many were attempting to slow their mounts before they were pushed into the gaping hole left by the collapse of the bridge. Over three-quarters of the force had been tossed into the Ashaba and drowned in their heavy armor.
There were less than twenty archers in the Twisted Tower, but the soldiers who rode or stood beside Fzoul didn’t know this. Even when the arrows began to fly and the soldiers at the front were slain, there was no realization that so few could have brought down so many. There were only the cries of the wounded and the frightened as Fzoul slid from his horse and fell to the ground, taking cover from the archers as his men died around him. Some of the soldiers were backing away, falling into the river. Fzoul realized that the corpses of his men and their mounts would block the edge of the bridge, and their movement would be slowed until they were killed one by one from the tower. The Zhentilar had lost the battle before they’d even met sword to sword with one dalesman.
On his hands and knees, Fzoul crawled back through the ranks of his dead and dying troops and started to strip off his armor.
The men who had sapped the bridge climbed up onto the western bank and attacked the remaining Zhentilar. The archers from the tower also moved out toward the road and began to move forward.
Cyric took his bow from his back and grabbed an arrow from the quiver of a nearby archer. The thief had not taken his gaze from the red-haired commander who was attempting to make his escape from the shattered bridge. The man was crawling away and taking off his armor. Obviously the coward was going to try to leap into the river.
Cyric notched a single arrow and braced himself. As the commander stood up and prepared to dive off the edge of the bridge, the thief screamed “Red hair!”
Fzoul locked eyes with Cyric for a moment, then tried to jump. At the same instant, Cyric loosed the single shaft with unerring accuracy. The arrow pierced Fzoul’s side as he fell into the river.
The slaughter of Bane’s men continued, but the battle at the western front was over. Cyric gathered most of the men together and headed for the eastern front. As they approached the center of town, though, they heard the sounds of a battle in progress—steel clashed against steel, and commanders screamed out orders. Cyric and his men charged into the nearest group of Zhentish soldiers. When they had driven them off, Cyric quickly asked a commander what had happened.
“The Zhents came from the north, too. Just as we’d expected. We slowed them down a bit with the traps and ramparts we’d set up in the farms they had to pass, but they got here anyway.”
Then another group of Zhentilar charged Cyric and he was once more lost in the battle.
In the furious fighting that covered the crossroads of Shadowdale, few noticed the squad of Zhentilar cavalry break off and head down the road to the east.
* * * * *
Kelemvor knew they would face impossible odds. Still, he gave the order to advance without hesitation. As commander of the entire movement, Kelemvor’s place was in the third line of defense. Those who charged out in the first line would account for the heaviest percentage of casualties in the attack on Bane’s armies, but there wasn’t a soldier that had not volunteered for their position. Kelemvor had been spared the duty of selecting those who would rush off to die.
Bane’s soldiers emerged, six at a time, from the path Sememmon had blazed. Most of the horses
had been killed in the trap, so most of the troops were infantry.
“Why not use our cavalry?” Drizhal said to Kelemvor. “We might be able to force them back that way.”
“We’ll need the mounts later,” Kelemvor said. “Their speed will allow our survivors to fall back and regroup long before Bane’s army can reach them.” The fighter turned away from the younger man and deployed the foot soldiers to cut down Bane’s forces as they left the narrow opening through the fallen trees in the road.
The dalesmen had some success in slowing down the Zhentish charge. Soon, however, they were forced back by the sheer number of Zhentilar still advancing. Kelemvor used the archers to provide covering fire as the survivors of the first group fell back and joined with Kelemvor and his men. At the same time, another band of dalesmen moved forward.
“Whoever their commander is, he’s good,” Kelemvor said. “My own tactics don’t seem to be fazing him at all.”
“It’s almost as if he knows you,” Drizhal said.
Kelemvor shook his head. “Or he knows what to expect.”
Bishop, the commander of the first group of dalesmen to attack, approached Kelemvor. He was slightly older than Kelemvor, with dirty blond hair and a fair complexion.
“They’re fighting like desperate men. If this was a holy crusade, like you said, they wouldn’t be. It’s more like fighting for survival, now,” Bishop said. “They’re not so anxious to die anymore.”
“But they keep coming,” Kelemvor said. “Do you think we can force a retreat?”
Bishop shook his head. “The Zhentilar in front have some madman driving them on, but they’re scared and they want to turn back. Those in the rear are hungry for revenge, and they’re pushing forward. That’s what it seems like from all the shouting. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of them are deserting into the forest.”
Suddenly there were shouts from the rear of Kelemvor’s troops. The fighter turned and saw a squadron of men approaching from the west. They wore the colors of Bane’s army.
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