“No!” Brianna screamed, but Bartoom was already climbing back up into the sky.
Bartoom reached down with its long neck, sinking its teeth into Torc’s neck and then ripping. Brianna felt the life of the small dragon extinguish, the way a candle flame is snuffed between fingers. She felt her own heart break with grief as Bartoom dropped the body of the small dragon.
Selix and Gyia attacked from opposite sides, even as Tig roared in fury, billowing orange flame and black smoke into the sky. Bartoom swung its massive black tail at Gyia but then turned its full attention to Selix. The two dragons met in mid-air, their talons clawing at one another while their tails lashed and their jaws snapped. Bartoom was slightly larger and much stronger. The big black dragon’s scales were harder as well, making Selix work harder to inflict damage, but Bartoom’s wing was not fully healed and it struggled to get a dominant position.
Selix and Gyia were working together, so Selix didn’t try to injure Bartoom—merely distract it. Gyia had flown wide of Bartoom’s initial attack, easily dodging the black dragon’s tail, but now it dove back into the fray. The purple dragon hissed as it dropped heavily on Bartoom’s back. Talons ripped across scales that weren’t quite as strong as those on the rest of Bartoom’s body. It was the exact spot that Zollin had hit the dragon with his electrical magic blast. At the same time, Gyia’s jaws snapped shut on Bartoom’s injured wing.
Bartoom arched its back and roared in pain. Selix flew back, letting the two entwined dragons fall past, then dove back down, intending to strike again, but a bolt of lightning shot down behind the golden dragon. Only Selix’s dive had saved it from being killed by the lightning bolt that Offendorl had conjured, but Selix was close enough to feel the shock as the bolt skimmed its tail. Then the clap of thunder startled everyone.
The villagers, watching through shuttered windows, trembled. Brianna ducked her head and felt the shock of fear from all the dragons run through her mind. Lightning was the one thing that dragons feared, but there had been no foul weather in the area, only puffy clouds gliding silently on the wind.
“Flee!” she shouted, pushing the mental thought out with force.
Bartoom crashed to the earth at the base of the hill, but the force of the impact shook the ground and collapsed another wall. Gyia had released the black dragon, who was bleeding, it’s wounded wing now in tatters, although the bone wasn’t broken. Selix had flown wide of the battle to avoid the lightning, but Gyia, close to the ground, was climbing slowly back into the air, an easy target.
Brianna pushed a thought toward Gyia and the purple dragon obeyed instantly, diving back toward Bartoom. Lightning struck nearby, but Offendorl couldn’t risk hitting Bartoom, giving Gyia the time it needed to gain speed and altitude. Brianna had healed Tig’s broken wing, but not the dragon’s wounded leg. Still, she sent it flying, low, away from the battle. Then she ran to the pile of stones covering Ferno. She could sense the dragon beneath the rubble. It was alive, but only barely—so many of its bones were shattered that it was only a matter of time before the beast’s heart gave out. Brianna jumped high into the air, her body exploding into flame, her clothes incinerating instantly, and she dove into the pile of rocks, which melted like candle wax before her. The mountain of stones covering Ferno glimmered, then glowed with heat before streaming away from the dragon like a lava flow.
Brianna poured healing fire into the dragon. It wasn’t a technical process, unlike Zollin’s magical healing, which was precise and driven by his knowledge of anatomy. Brianna’s magic was more a force of will. She was like a small star—the heat from her healing powers even melted the ground beneath them. The castle’s foundation had been built from huge stones, expertly laid on the bedrock of the hill, but the stones melted into a pool of molten rock.
Offendorl was trying desperately to hit Gyia with lightning, the sky crackling with electricity and thunder claps making the ground shudder. The elder wizard didn’t see Selix returning to the fight. The golden dragon roared as it breathed fire onto the inn where it sensed the magic of Offendorl. The fire tore through the small structure’s roof and poured into building, setting it ablaze instantly. Offendorl had just enough time to surround himself and the young woman who had served him so faithfully since he’d arrived at her village and humiliated her husband. Fire raged around them and she dropped the wine she had been holding for him and clung to his ancient body, but the heat and flames were held at bay by the shield spell.
“Flee!” Brianna ordered again, sending the mental order out to Gyia and Selix.
Bartoom was roaring in pain and Ferno was just coming to when Selix sent Brianna the mental image of Offendorl escaping from the inn. The lightning that had been pursing Gyia had ceased, but Brianna knew it was only a matter of time before another of her pride was killed. Selix circled in the air, golden scales glimmering brightly in the light from the fire that was consuming the village inn. Offendorl was holding one hand up, palm out toward Selix, who was diving back toward the wizard, swaying from side to side to avoid being an easy target for the elder wizard’s magic. In his other hand he clutched the golden crown to his side.
Lightning struck again—this time it was wide of Selix, but sent the dragon careening away from Offendorl. The lighting hit another of the buildings in the village, which exploded under the force and set several other buildings ablaze.
Brianna swam up out of the pool of molten rock, followed closely by Ferno. The green dragon took to the air while Brianna ran to the edge of the hill and jumped off. The hill wasn’t extremely steep, but it gave Brianna enough air to rise up on a wave of heat from behind her, and then dive down toward Offendorl. She was like a fiery comet, streaking through the air almost too fast to keep up with, her body covered in flames.
The Master of the Torr turned just in time, throwing up a magical barrier that Brianna crashed into. She felt searing pain as her shoulder was knocked out of socket, but Offendorl and the woman were sent sprawling on the ground from the force of the impact. Brianna rolled to her feet, holding her injured arm to her body and blinking away the tears that blurred her vision. She was just about to send a gout of fire at Offendorl when Bartoom crawled between them. Brianna hesitated as the dragon roared at her.
“No!” she screamed. “Move aside.”
Bartoom stood resolute as an image flashed into Brianna’s mind of Selix diving for her. She jumped into the air and felt Selix’s tail wrap around her as the great golden dragon swooped upward. Brianna watched as Offendorl put the golden crown on his head and then pointed at her. Bartoom, wounded and in pain, flapped its good wing and slowly clawed its way into the air.
She guessed the crown had to do with how Offendorl enslaved the black dragon, but she had no more time to ponder the situation, as the lightning began to slash down at them.
Her shoulder was aching and her vision grew blurry as Selix zigged and zagged through the night sky. They soon outpaced the wizard’s reach, and as Brianna looked up just before she passed out from pain and fatigue, she saw Bartoom lumbering after them.
Chapter 22
It was well past noon before King Zorlan ordered his troops forward. Prince Wilam’s patience was wearing thin and his men had long before grown restless. Trumpets braying across the field of battle alerted them all to the invading army’s approach. They could see the foot soldiers moving forward, with the cavalry taking a position to the rear. The horse soldiers were armed for battle, but stayed in reserve. Wilam guessed that King Zorlan expected his line to break, creating an opening that his cavalry could exploit.
Scouts reported positions as the army moved closer. So far, none of King Zorlan’s forces had made a move that Prince Wilam wasn’t expecting. He had a full legion of foot soldiers held in reserve, and the rest spread across the field, forming a shield wall that was four men deep. They had been lounging in the sun, using their shields to keep from baking in the heat. Now they were on their feet and Wilam knew that when he gave the order they would lock their s
hields together, using short swords to hack beneath the shields, the men behind using their weapons to reach over the shoulders of their comrades to slash and stab. It was an age-old tactic that was ruthlessly efficient against the Skellmarians, and, Wilam had learned, the Norsik, who attacked Ortis regularly through the Wilderlands. But if Zorlan’s forces were well disciplined, two shield walls could fight for hours and accomplish very little.
The thought crossed Prince Wilam’s mind that perhaps Zorlan wasn’t hesitant. Perhaps he was just allowing his troops time to rest so that they would be ready for a long battle, while his troops languished through a restless night and then waited through a large part of the day in the blistering heat of the sun. It was a wily strategy, but Wilam had a few tricks up his sleeve as well.
“Loose the fire arrows,” he ordered.
The archers on the platform with Wilam lit arrows that had been soaked in oil. The oil made the arrows burn and produced black smoke. The archers had to lean out over the guardrail in order to shoot the arrows high up into the air. The awning over the platform extended several feet beyond the platform to give it the maximum protection from falling projectiles. Six arrows arced through the sky, leaving a trail of greasy, black smoke behind them.
The invading soldiers faltered in their march when they saw the fire arrows. They expected the battlefield to be soaked with oil, creating a barrier of flame between the two armies, but the arrows fell harmlessly into the open field. Prince Wilam was left to wait once more. The invading army was moving slowly, conserving their energy, and King Zorlan’s cavalry had not yet moved into position.
It was hard for the prince to stay calm, but he managed it. He wanted nothing more than to be in the middle of the shield wall, fighting shoulder to shoulder with men he trusted, but he couldn’t fight on the front lines and direct the army. He waited, watching the mounted cavalry far across the plain. Suddenly a large group of horsemen turned their horses and rode back into their camp. Prince Wilam could only hope it was to stop the troops who were harrying the supply train and reserve troops. He doubted that King Zorlan could lead effectively while being attacked from the front and the rear.
“Archers,” Wilam said.
An aide beside him began waving colored flags to signal the appropriate group. Wilam had 200 longbow men. They were not marksmen in the traditional sense—instead they were trained to fire at specific distances. By firing large volleys they could rain down death on an enemy while staying out of reach at the same time.
“Two hundred yards,” Wilam ordered. “Fire away.”
The aide waved more flags, and Wilam watched as a volley of arrows whistled into the air. Marching troops used shields to keep the arrows from falling on them, but unless they stopped and knelt down, they would be at least partially exposed. The arrows were costly, and firing volleys of 200 arrows at once used up great numbers of them in a short amount of time. Still, it caused the invading troops to huddle together, their officers barking at them to maintain their ranks and pace. The invaders inevitably slowed, and they were forced to carry their heavy shields over their heads. As the arrows rained down a few men were wounded. The casualties were negligible but the Ortisan soldiers cheered anyway.
Zollin saw that the cavalry troops returned to their position, but he knew his men would keep moving, keep hitting the enemy in different locations before retreating again. He hoped it would keep King Zorlan and his generals occupied.
“One hundred yards,” he ordered the aide, who signaled the command.
When the latest volley of arrows went up, a horn blew and the invaders charged. They screamed their battle cry as they dashed forward. The volley of arrows caught a few, but most flew over the heads of the invaders. They were no longer in straight, even rows. It was another tactic intended to save the invaders from the threat of the arrows and also give them a chance at using the force of their charge to break Wilam’s shield wall.
As a commander on the field, Wilam had always welcomed the test of his shield wall. He trained his men relentlessly and knew without a doubt what they could withstand. Now, leading an army of foreigners, he stood at the rail of his platform, leaning forward eagerly to see how his troops would hold up.
The clash of the two armies was like thunder at first, the crack of shield against shield, then swords against shields, and finally the cries of rage, fear, and pain. The sounds rolled across the plain and made Wilam’s blood run hot. For a brief moment he had no regard for anything else, not even his queen. But then his line staggered back and the shield wall became a mass all its own, straining and heaving as the two armies pushed against each other.
Wilam frowned. He didn’t have the resources to sway the conflict—success now rested on the soldiers who were fighting on the ground. For several minutes the line swayed, like water sloshing in a bucket, first one way, then another, but soon it was obvious the two forces were deadlocked. It would take hours, perhaps days for the foot soldiers to gain an advantage. And then King Zorlan did something Wilam had expected, but couldn’t adequately counter. The Falxisian king sent his cavalry to both ends of the Ortisian lines. Zollin had already positioned his own mounted troops on either end of the battle line, but his cavalry were outnumbered four to one.
Wilam had hoped that his small force attacking King Zorlan’s forces from the rear would force the invaders to keep a larger number of troops in reserve, but it hadn’t worked. Either Zorlan had more nerve than Wilam had thought, or the invading king had anticipated Wilam’s tactics. By dividing his forces, Wilam was now at a disadvantage, with no foreseeable way to counter the invader’s tactics.
“Sir, the enemy cavalry are moving to attack,” Wilam’s aide said.
“I see that, fool. Don’t speak unless you are ordered to do so.”
“Yes, sir,” said the aide, rigidly.
“Order one century of archers to each flank. I want them moving at a run!”
The aide didn’t answer—he just turned and waved his flags again. Wilam was tense as he watched the archers move. He knew the bowmen stood no chance once the cavalry reached them—they would be cut down like winter wheat before a farmer’s scythe—but if they could get to the edge of the battle in time, they could fire at the enemy’s horses.
“Order them to fire at will once they reach the edge of the line,” Wilam said, his voice loud.
It took almost a full minute for the bowmen to get into position and fire. By that time, the enemy cavalry were at full gallop. The archers fired sporadically, many missing their targets. It took a direct hit to bring down the warhorses; the others would carry their riders until they dropped dead. Wilam saw a few of the riders stumble and fall, but most continued through the fray. The Ortisan officers leading the cavalry on the right side of the line moved forward and engaged the enemy. They were outnumbered and their chances for success were slim, but they spared the archers from the brunt of the enemy’s attack and allowed the bowmen time to pull back and offer support from a position of safety.
The officer on the left end of the shield wall was not so wise. He ordered his force to wheel, turning away from the action, which spared his cavalry from the brunt of the invader’s charge but left the archers exposed. The officer must have expected the enemy to follow his mounted troops away from the battle, but instead they cut down the archers and turned to flank the line of foot soldiers. The cavalry tried to re-engage, but the damage was done. The shield wall broke on the left side of the line—men were cut down or deserted their comrades in order to retreat. Wilam cursed as he watched his line falter and break. It moved down the line of soldiers from left to right, like a wave, until there was only a jumbled mass of humanity.
“Sound the retreat,” Wilam said bitterly.
The aide waved his flags and trumpets blew. It was a sickening sound to Wilam. His plans had been thwarted, and now his hopes for winning Gwendolyn’s affections were lost. His only hope would be to retreat back to the Grand City and take cover behind the city’s massive
walls.
He didn’t wait to see the final outcome, but climbed down from his platform and mounted his horse. Men were beginning to run past him, terror on their faces. He despised them. They should have stayed and fought for their queen, he thought. They should have given their lives, to the last man, but instead they had deserted the field of battle, and many would not fall back to their camp but would instead flee. His force, defeated in battle, would be reduced further by their cowardice, and King Zorlan’s army would now be bolstered by success on the battlefield.
“Fall back,” he shouted. “Fall back to the camp.”
It was almost dark by the time they began their retreat in earnest. They had lost over half their force, including all but a handful of the archers and cavalry. They abandoned their supplies, carrying only their weapons as they marched through the night. The camp, Wilam hoped, would be enough of a distraction to the invaders to buy them some time to distance themselves. The invaders would loot the camp and celebrate their victory while Prince Wilam limped home.
His troops marched at a slow, dogged pace. Their feet seemed to drag along the path.
His generals had survived, and they rode beside him now. No one spoke, and Wilam was sure they were planning how to report his defeat to Gwendolyn in hopes of stealing her favor.
Despair washed over him, and he felt like a little child. There had been times when his father had called him to account for a misdeed. King Felix of Yelsia was a stern man who brooked no failure, especially in his firstborn son. Disappointing his father had happened infrequently, but it had happened. Now he felt the same sense of dread. Clouds rolled across the sky until it was so dark out that torches had to be made and lit.
Wilam guessed correctly that their progress was too slow. They would have to march through the day, his men moving slower and slower. If it rained, it would only make things worse. They had very little food and water, and each stop to rest would bring their enemy closer. They were four days from the Grand City, perhaps five at the pace they were moving. Prince Wilam estimated that they would be caught late on the third day, or early on the fourth. Despite his gut-wrenching failure, he began to plan how to save as many of his troops as possible.
Five Kingdoms: Book 05 - Fierce Loyalty Page 23