While that forced the goblins to turn away from the archers, infantry, and cottage redoubt to face their new attackers, the maneuver did little to help them. Master Minalan and his warmagi, temporarily forgotten, now launched a fresh wave of spells that began to erode the goblin defenses. While most of the magic was invisible without magesight, the effects were profound. Goblins suddenly began attacking their fellows in a crazed fashion, while others merely sank to the ground and whimpered, or clutched their stomachs or eyes or throats as the wizards’ spells swept over them and found their targets.
As if the gods themselves were watching, the storm chose that moment to surge. When the cavalry began to stall, the dark clouds overhead poured rain on the battle, turning the trodden field into a muddy, bloody nightmare that affected friend and foe alike. Dara tried to ignore the wet as it slowly soaked into her mantle and dripped from the brim of her helmet, but it was hard.
Suddenly, one of the archers became irritated with the role of spectator. Sarakeem looked out at the battle, like a child left out of a game, frustrated at the order to cease fire. Then he screwed up his face and vaulted over the low wall.
“I must have battle!” he exclaimed. “This inactivity is unacceptable!” He expressed his disapproval by firing three arrows in rapid success as he landed. Each shot hit, Dara saw, the last one apparently without Sarakeem even looking at the target.
The Merwyni warmage wasn’t the only one who craved battle. Dara caught a glimpse of her fellow apprentice, Tyndal, riding through the gurvani without his helmet, his mageblade slashing at the scalps and necks of his foes, his face shifting from battlefield yells to intense smiles as he fought. He vaulted off of his horse as it stomped on one goblin from behind to pin another to the ground with his blade before blasting a third with a warwand. Tyndal always seemed so dashing and careless, but Dara had to admit he knew how to fight. Sarakeem saw him too, and shortly the two were standing side by side, mageblade and bow dispensing lethal punishment to any who challenged them.
But the goblins weren’t helpless, either. Some shaman of theirs cast an evil blue cloud that enveloped scores of knights, as they tried to regroup for a charge. The triumphant battle-cries and horn calls turned to screams and wretching. Dara watched in horror as dozens of armored bodies fell off their horses, while their horses fell dead on top of them. Some of them bore devices she recognized – Riverlords. She prayed to the Flame that Sir Festaran was not among them.
At that horrible moment in the battle, it almost looked as if the gurvani would be able to reform against the Riverland knights before they were able to organize themselves. That’s when Dara spied Rondal leap over the hedge on the far side of the field and lead the infantry in their own charge. It was less majestic than the horses and lances of the knights, but almost as effective. As the big shields and flashing swords of the infantry pushed into the goblin army, they kept the right flank from being able to organize.
“That’s it, they’re breaking!” Kyre called excitedly. Dara saw he was correct. A large contingent of gurvani survivors, a few hundred at most, began to retreat away from the disastrous encounter. Dara nodded in amazed agreement. Rondal’s charge had done more than just harass the goblins. It gave the Riverlord knights an opportunity to regroup, reform themselves, and conduct a second cavalry charge.
Between the anvil of the infantry and the hammer of the horsemen, the gurvani army was beaten flat. More and more goblins were taking to their heels or withdrawing in what order they could. But there were plenty who were staying to fight, even as the day went against them.
Baron Arathanial’s gallant second charge had another important effect, too. His forces had overcome another shaman, she decided, based on the sudden lack of spells coming from them . . . and a change she felt with her nascent arcane senses. Something shifted, she realized. The warmagi’s spells got more intense, she saw, and were doing a lot more damage.
When a particular knot of angry black fur first caught on fire, then slammed against each other until their bodies were twisted and broken, Dara saw just how nasty warmagic could be.
There was one tense moment, as the battle waned: faced with certain slaughter, a large band of goblins broke free from the pounding they were receiving betwixt cavalry and infantry, and charged the redoubt. The sudden move took the sentries by surprise, and everyone was quickly called back to the wall of the cotyard. It was a desperate move, but the goblins had little choice compared to the bloody alternative. They endured flight after flight of arrows and spells from the harried defenders of the cotyard rather than face the blades behind them.
As they got closer and closer, Dara could see that they were a mixture – some smaller, darker gurvani, and some who were appreciably larger and whose fur was not as dark, and thinning in patches. The larger goblins were better armored, too, wearing looted gear as stout as her own.
Dara could feel the tension in the line as every man shot the charging gurvani as quickly as they could. There was no time to organize a volley, nor would it have been effective against troops moving so quickly. Instead the Westwoodmen and other defenders picked their targets and shot for speed.
Still, Dara was only able to get off three quick shots before the gurvani were within striking distance of the wall. She didn’t even track to see if she’d hit before she drew her next shaft. When the first few gurvani made it to the sentry knights, picking up the corpses of their smaller fellows and using them to shield against the arrows, she had to stop as friend and foe were too close together.
She saw her brother Kyre draw the long horseman’s sword the Spellmonger had given him at Yule, and she heard other blades come swiftly from their scabbards as more goblins poured in behind the engaged sentries and bows became useless. One howling warrior kicked a knight in his knee before leaping atop the wall, with his fellows behind him, and began striking with the long axe he carried. Lady Ithalia’s bow put an arrow in the creature’s throat, but more gurvani climbed over his fallen body to invade the courtyard.
“Dara! Fall back!” her uncle Keram bellowed as he stabbed at the next dark body to cross over with his infantry sword. Kyre blocked a strike from another’s mace while Kobb kicked an unbearably ugly goblin’s knee out from under him and bashed his furry face with his boot, before slashing at the next one coming over the wall with his sword.
For a few tense moments, the defenders nearly broke as they struggled to keep the goblins at bay – but Lady Ithalia’s arrows flew unerringly, and the warriors of the Riverlands were resolute. Larvan climbed atop the wall with the banner and began using the shaft to sweep away the lighter gurvani, and he was joined by a squire with a bloody face and a longsword, but it was inadequate for how badly the goblins wanted into the redoubt. Enough managed to climb over the wall to turn the cotyard into a dogfight, as more defenders rushed from the rear to reinforce the line.
Dara just stood there, stupefied, the first few seconds she came face-to-face with a goblin without a wall between them. Indeed, there was no one between her and the ugly little foe. It was one of the smaller ones, and it had been wounded already, she saw. An arrow protruded from its shoulder under its leather armor, and its black fur was soaked with blood. For the tiniest moment she felt empathy for the desperate, wounded creature as it looked around for escape.
But then it screamed defiantly and tried to stab her brother, and her willingness to sympathize with it ended. Kyre was fighting like mad to keep more from coming over, supporting the other Westwoodmen, when the nasty little goblin leapt at his back with a long, curved knife.
Dara acted automatically. She’d prepared a few of the spells that Lady Pentandra had taught her for battle – they were ‘hung’, as the warmagi said, ready to spring like a cocked crossbow. When she saw Kyre’s danger, she didn’t hesitate. She took three steps whispered the command word that triggered the spell . . . and touched the goblin’s elbow as it reared back to strike.
The power coursed briefly through her hand as the spell�
��s shape took hold of the goblin. Instantly it doubled over, vomiting as it fell to its knees. The Gutbuster Spell, she recalled with satisfaction. An ideal way to incapacitate an enemy. As the goblin fell, Dara felt proud of her first battle-cast spell.
Then one of the worst smells she ever imagined filled the air, and she recalled the other effects of the spell. Losing control of the bowels.
Unfortunately, her pride and disgust kept her from seeing the ugly little gurvan who leapt over the wall and sprang onto her back.
She nearly panicked as she felt one of its furry, greasy hands claw at her face, while the other was trying to beat her in the head with a small mace. The expression on its face was raw hatred, its slitted eyes blazing as it attacked her. While none of the strikes were precise enough to avoid her armor, she felt like she was being beaten by a small, murderous child who knew it was only a matter of time before one struck true.
Soot and ashes! Dara thought to herself angrily. I’m fighting for my life!
Her arms reached up to keep the beast at bay, batting aside its mace with her arm while one of her hands instinctively grabbed the gurvan’s long ear . . . and pulled viciously at it.
Hardly a mortal blow, she realized, but it yanked the goblin’s head and shoulders back enough so that it could not quite reach her face with its iron club. It settled for beating against the offending right arm, the one covered with her thick falconer’s gauntlet. It screamed and gibbered angrily as she pulled its ear with her right hand . . . and scrambled frantically at her belt for her dagger with her left.
I’m going to die! she lamented in a panic as the ferocious goblin wriggled with pain and anger, keening and snarling terribly. To let go of its ear would invite a swift death, if she let it. Yet she couldn’t grip it in her fist forever.
At last her borrowed dagger came free, and though she’d never been trained in its use she’d butchered scores of Frightful’s kills. She knew what to do with a knife. With a desperate tug of her right shoulder, she pushed the goblin off balance by pulling hard on its ear . . . and buried her dagger into its side.
It was a nightmarish thing, seeing and feeling a creature in pain and near death struggling on top of you. But Dara was desperate, too. More, she was angry. A deep and dark feeling swept over her, and suddenly she didn’t care one bit how the goblin felt. She was fighting to survive. While the goblin struggled above her, Dara wouldn’t let herself go of its ear, nor would she relent with how deeply she stabbed at it.
Still, it would not die. Indeed, it howled more, and its struggling arms dropped the mace and began clawing blindly frantically at her face and left arm, splashing its own blood and hair all over her, as it sought the dagger that was killing it. Dara pushed her face as far away from it as she could, but she would . . . not . . . let . . . go. Her jaw ached as her teeth ground together, but she was determined. At least as determined as the gurvan she fought.
Thankfully, someone else intervened. From nowhere she heard a Riverland’s war-cry, over the goblin’s screams, which suddenly stopped. The ear she held so firmly finally came off in her hands. With the rest of its head.
A spray of blood and loose goblin hair hit her face, but all resistance fled from the lifeless body. She shoved the disgusting headless corpse off of her and looked up into the cloudy sky from her back. The face of Sir Festaran looked back at her, concerned. Behind him, more Riverlands knights, dismounted, had entered the fray and were turning the tide in quick order. Their long swords and steel armor made short work of the gurvani who remained.
She glanced over to her family, counting them and making sure that they were not seriously injured. Her chest heaved like a bellows under her armor, and she had the bitter taste of goblin blood in her teeth.
“Thank you for holding his neck so still, Hawkmaiden,” the Riverlord said, glancing around for more foes nearby. “It made my strike a simple matter. Are you injured?” he asked, reaching out a hand to wipe the blood off her face.
Dara swallowed, desperate for a sip of water. “He knocked me down from behind,” she said, defensively, shaking off his hand. “I’m fine,” she insisted, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious for a moment.
“I think we can claim the battle, if not yet the day,” he counseled, surveying the field with a knowledgeable eye. The knights of the Riverlands were driving the last survivors who hadn’t escaped their trap into the fearsome swords and shields of the infantry. Master Minalan was riding toward the redoubt with Baron Arathanial, Sir Taren, Sire Cei, and his apprentices.
But they were riding through a field of bloody carnage. Dead and dying goblins were scattered in clumps across the field like clods of turned earth. The wails of the wounded, men and gurvani, echoed piteously in the damp air. Already crows and ravens were gathering overhead for an unexpected feast.
“And you survived your first battle,” Festaran said, gently. “Duin’s blessing on you.”
She knew he meant well by the blessing, and it was especially potent coming from a knight. But looking around at the blood, death, and suffering, she didn’t feel the divine glory of battle the way the War God was supposed to make you feel.
As she looked down at her borrowed dagger, stained with blood and hair, all she felt was nausea.
Chapter Eight
A Picnic With The Spellmonger
When the last of the organized gangs of goblins had been swept from the field by the thundering hooves of patrolling Riverlords, the teams searching for the dead and wounded went out . . . and casualties began to be carried back to the camp.
That was when Dara realized that there was another side to being a warmage than merely charging into battle. Nearly every one of the wizards who’d fought immediately began to help tend the wounded warriors being carried back to the courtyard. Infantrymen brought their comrades on shields, while the cavalry wrapped their lances with their mantles to create make-shift stretchers. Hundreds of men began pouring into the station, red with blood.
Dara was almost as confused by the aftermath as she had been by the battle. She didn’t know what to do, and stood there, dumbly, until someone asked her to take a look at someone. One glance at the soldier’s horrific gut-wound, however, and Dara nearly vomited again. She would have, if her stomach hadn’t been empty.
“We’ve set up a field hospital at an intact barn, half a mile to the southwest,” one of the infantrymen informed her, when she asked where all the wounded were going. “There’s a small shrine there, and some of the nuns of the local abbey have lent their aid as nurses. For all the good it will do,” he said, darkly, as a man crying piteously on a litter nearby gave a gasp and breathed no more. “We’re rounding up a few wagons and carts to take the worst of them. But all told, casualties were lighter than expected,” he said, with an optimistic note in his voice.
Dara looked around the courtyard, appalled. If this was less damage than expected, how bad would things have gotten if the battle had not gone their way?
There were dozens of men crowded in the yard, now, laying sprawled where they’d been placed, awaiting aid, and more arriving all the time. Sacks of bandages brought along for the inevitable need were depleted, as piles of discarded, bloody clothing took its place. Scores of men bore lesser wounds from the battle but were able to walk under their own power back to the cottage redoubt before casting themselves in the mud. Some of their injuries turned Dara’s stomach yet more, when she saw them. Others were the result of falls or stumbles, sprains and broken bones, which required medical attention before the warrior could return to battle.
There was blood. There was more blood than Dara thought could exist in the world. It flowed out of men and goblin alike, staining the trampled mud a malevolent ochre. There were screams, too, and piteous moans for Trygg Allmother’s grace, cries to their own mothers, and strings of curses as the wounded contended with the pain.
She stumbled from one wounded man to another with a bag of bandages, staring at them blankly, uncertain of what to do in the blo
ody chaos . . . until Gareth happened by.
The young wizard looked anxious as he flitted from litter to litter, using his witchstone to ascertain the health of the victim in front of him with startling clarity. He wore a bloodstained apron over his archer’s armor, and carried a bag she discovered was stuffed full of bottles, phials, and parchment packages of herbs.
Gareth may not have been suited for warmagic, but he understood the kind of medical magic useful on the battlefield. She watched as the mage approached a wounded man, assess his injuries, cast a spell, studied the results, and then directed the attendants to either carry the man to the field hospital for surgery, send him to the aid station nearby for treatment . . . or carry him back to the growing pile of corpses behind the cottage.
“Dara!” he called, when he saw her, and grabbed her elbow. “Good! You can help!”
“Not with magic!” she countered, defensively. “I have no idea what to do with this sort of thing. Remember, I’m just starting to learn!”
Gareth looked at her thoughtfully. “Fair enough. Then stand near, and be prepared to help, at need. Just do what I tell you to. And grab a water bottle,” he suggested. “Dehydration is a problem. Half of these men have sweated their lives away, today, in this humidity. Give it to any man who doesn’t have a belly or throat wound. That includes those who bore the stretcher, else they join the wounded from exertion,” he added. “Offer every man who passes a drink.”
Dara nodded dumbly, and managed to sling three or four leather water skins around her neck before returning to follow Gareth, who continued his work. She did her best to supply both victims and attendants with water as best she could, as the magi around her helped a few monks determine who needed what kind of aid. For most, he would bind their wounds cleverly, after soaking them in spirits, cast a quick spell, and send them on their way.
Several times she fetched more bandages, ropes, spirits, or other supplies from the stockpile near the fireplace, at Gareth’s direction, and she did not hesitate to use the few cantrips she could cast, usually magelight.
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