by James Lowder
“Lord Harcourt sends his apologies, Your Highness.” The boy swallowed nervously and glanced around. “The nobles disobeyed his orders and charged.”
“By the gods, why?”
The boy wiped a gummy hand across his forehead. “Lord Darstan and some others said they could easily chase down the horsewarriors when you, one wizard, and a few knights escaped from the Tuigan camp on your own. I heard ’em say it, Your Highness.”
The shock from that statement had little time to settle on Azoun. A deep, rolling rumble crossed the field, and for an instant, the king thought the wizards had cast another powerful spell. A single look at the battlefield revealed how wrong that guess was. Through the patches of smoke and fire, Azoun could clearly see the entirety of the khahan’s army advancing at a gallop across the body-strewn field. The black line on the horizon spread as it moved closer, and the king realized why Yamun Khahan had waited until now to attack in force.
“They’re going to surround us,” he said, turning to Farl. “The khahan was hoping to bait the cavalry forward so he could surround us easily.”
The infantry commander scowled. “Without cavalry on the wings, the Tuigan will outflank us without trying.” He spurred his horse and charged away from the king, shouting orders.
By now the rest of the Alliance had realized what was happening, too. The wizards, unprotected by any kind of armor, pushed from the rear of the formation to the short space between the first line of infantry and the mixed line of swordsmen and archers. Shoving their way to protection, the mages threw the second rank into turmoil. In a few places scuffles broke out, though the captains saw to these with harsh efficiency.
Assessing the situation as quickly as possible, Azoun decided to force both lines up the hill farther. In a normal assault, the archers’ palisades would be used only if the frontal assault drove the first rank into retreat. Then, the wooden spikes would hamper a full-scale charge. However, if the Tuigan got to the rear of the Alliance and forced the second rank downhill, the palisades would be useless.
“Front rank retreat to the second rank’s position!” the king cried, waving his sword to motion the retrenchment. The standard-bearer echoed the order, and sergeants and captains barked out the command all down both lines.
For a well-trained army, this maneuver would have proved little problem, but the Army of the Alliance had had only a limited amount of time to drill. As a result, the retrenchment took far too long. By the time the ranks were in place, the Tuigan had outflanked the army and were closing in on three sides.
Azoun didn’t see Lord Harcourt’s standard waver, then fall, as the bulk of the khahan’s troops rolled over the Alliance’s cavalry. The nobles had wiped out the last of the retreating Tuigan line, but at the cost of their lives to a man. The fires and the earth elementals slowed the charge a little, too, but not enough. Eighty thousand barbarians, crying out for vengeance, screaming for western blood, emerged from the smoke, brandishing their bows.
Without warning, a Tuigan arrow bit into Azoun’s leg. Fired at a distance of only thirty yards, the black shaft pierced the king’s cuisse and pinned his leg to his horse. The destrier reared as Azoun threw back his head and screamed in agony. The sky he saw through tears of pain was black.
Above the Army of the Alliance, the crows swarmed. Their numbers seemed to blot out the sun, and their cries drowned out Azoun’s scream. Almost hidden in the sea of black feathers, a lighter-colored falcon circled the battle, watching the Tuigan surround the crusaders.
14
Duty
Black wings fluttered in front of her eyes, obscuring the battle on the ground below. She swooped lower, closer to the conflict. The carrion birds bumped and battered her, making her view jump, but soon the Army of the Alliance came clearly into sight again.
Tuigan troops completely ringed the western army.
Alusair cursed bitterly, and her black-and-white view of the battle wavered. After she forced herself to concentrate on the magical link with the falcon, the vision cleared again. For being so high above the lines—higher even than Suzail’s tallest tower—Alusair was amazed at the detail she could discern. Through the bird’s eyes, the princess saw the plights of individual soldiers, even the flights of single arrows.
For all her searching, she couldn’t find her father. She’d spotted the royal standard, which was being buffeted about in the press, but the king wasn’t near it. That was a very bad sign. As Alusair knew, Azoun needed to be in contact with the purple dragon standard to issue commands; without him, the army was fighting on instinct alone.
Refusing to believe her father dead, Alusair decided that he must have been pushed away from the standard-bearer. The mental effort it took to draw that conclusion weakened the link to the falcon, and for an instant, the battle disappeared completely from her mind.
“Damned magical—” Alusair stopped, kept her eyes tightly closed, and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes, she saw Torg standing over her, his hands balled into fists and resting on his armored hips.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
“Only a few more miles and we’ll see the Alliance,” the princess said sullenly. “The Tuigan have them surrounded, so we’d better hurry.”
Not waiting for more of an explanation, Torg barked a string of orders to his captains. The dwarven army heaved itself wearily to its feet and prepared for the march. Before the army proceeded across the low, rolling hills, however, they dropped their packs and tethered the mules that towed their wagons.
“We won’t be needing tents to fight the barbarians,” was all Torg would tell Alusair by way of a reply.
Her heart heavy with concern for her father, the princess contacted the falcon, once again using the bracelet the centaur had given her, and told it to circle the battle for a while, then return to her. Next she, too, stripped her pack and put on her full armor. Sweat trickled over much of her body almost immediately after she donned the heavy plate. The princess’s thoughts were on other things, though, so she hardly noticed it.
Setting a quick pace, Torg set off for the battle. The dwarves had yet to see a Tuigan patrol, and Alusair hoped their appearance would be a surprise. For his part, the ironlord didn’t care much about the tactics of the fight to come, only that it come quickly. If the army gained a few skulls for the caves of Earthfast, so much the better. The number of dwarves who might die to take them didn’t matter, either, just as long as they perished in a righteous fight.
Smoke rose on the horizon. From what she’d seen through the falcon’s eyes, Alusair knew it was from the fire the wizards had started with their spells early in the battle. The dark clouds rolled into the sky and seemed to transmute into thousands of individual black birds. This grim sight set the dwarven troops on edge long before they heard the first faint echoes of the battle drift over the hills toward them.
“Damn all humans!” Torg shouted suddenly. He slapped his mailed hand noisily against his leg and pointed to the left. A few hundred yards away, three Tuigan scouts were rising from the tall grass. The barbarians dashed away before the ironlord even considered sending soldiers after them.
“It can’t be helped,” Alusair offered. Bracing her helmet under her arm, she wiped the perspiration from her brow. “We should be able to see the battle once we top that next hill anyway.”
The princess was correct. When the dwarves reached the spot she’d indicated, they saw the two armies thrown together in bloody, chaotic combat before them. Far to their right, the Alliance’s camp was spread in the bright sun. Without warning, a falcon swooped low over the fields, then caught an updraft and sailed high over Torg’s troops. For a moment, Alusair considered using the bracelet again to get a better vantage on the battle. She quickly dismissed that notion when she saw a line of horsewarriors break from the conflict.
“Array for combat!” Torg shouted. He swatted the standard-bearer when the boy didn’t move fast enough for his liking. Alusair frowned at the cruelty.
The dwarves scattered and formed a triple line across the hill. The first two ranks placed their pikes at their feet and drew their crossbows, while the third rank braced their polearms as a protective palisade. As five thousand Tuigan horsemen rumbled up the incline, away from Azoun’s left flank, Torg’s troops swiftly cranked their heavy bows. They loaded the powerful weapons, then waited with their characteristic silence to meet the charge.
“They’ll ride close once, then turn and fire,” Alusair reminded Torg. “Just as they did with the Army of the Alliance. They’ll try to draw you out.”
The ironlord raised the visor on his helmet. “I’m not fooled so easily, Princess.” He smiled and straightened his beard, bound in heavy chains of gleaming gold for the battle. “And the Tuigan have never faced a dwarven army in battle before.”
Slamming his visor back into place, Torg ordered the standard-bearer to relay a command to the troops. As the horsewarriors galloped closer, the dwarves’ front rank raised their bows and sighted on the enemy. When the Tuigan reached seventy-five yards, the dwarves fired.
A loud, reverberating retort followed the firing of the bows. Heavy crossbow bolts sped toward the Tuigan and tore fearfully into their ranks. Horses tumbled and soldiers screamed, but the mass of the enemy line rushed toward the dwarves, unaffected by the death and pain around them. At fifty yards, the barbarians reined in their horses and returned fire.
Alusair flinched as the shower of powerfully launched Tuigan arrows arced into the sky and struck the dwarven line. The princess knew what to expect from the attack, so she wasn’t really afraid. Like the rest of Torg’s troops, Alusair wore plate armor wrought in Earthfast, legendary for its strength. That day’s battle added to the stories about the mountain kingdom’s craftsmen.
A thunderous clatter echoed in Alusair’s ears as arrow after arrow struck armor and bounced off. In only a few instances did the missiles penetrate the dwarves’ plate mail, and then only because of a carelessly exposed joint or slightly open visor. As the rain of arrows lessened, the ironlord ordered his troops to fire again. The second line loosed their crossbows, and more bolts ripped into the retreating Tuigan line.
“They won’t try that again,” Torg said loudly. He looked down the intact dwarven line, then out at the hundreds of wounded barbarians in the field. “Not even orcs are stupid enough to use an unsuccessful attack twice in a day.”
With a twinge of guilt, Alusair found herself admiring Torg again. The ironlord was thoughtless and perhaps even cruel, but he knew the battlefield well. “May Clanggedin and all the other dwarven gods prove the rest of your plan as successful, Your Highness,” the princess said. She glanced at the horsewarriors and added, “For we will test it very soon.”
With a loud and trilling war cry, the Tuigan charged again. As the double line of riders drew nearer, Alusair could see that they wielded lances and silver curved swords instead of bows. It was clear that they were going to push for hand-to-hand combat.
Showing little anxiety, even though the barbarians were barreling down on his troops, Torg bade the standard-bearer signal again. Deftly the soldiers hung their crossbows from hooks on their brichettes and picked up their pikes. The Tuigan were less than forty yards away when the dwarven lines broke. Their bows clanging softly against their armored hips and legs, Torg’s troops formed their battle squares.
It was obvious that the Tuigan had never encountered this tactic before. Their commander, riding next to his standard, halted his charge and attempted to slow his men, but the barbarians rushed to engulf the four squares of dwarves. Capturing so compact and easily surrounded an enemy looked simple at first. The horsewarriors soon discovered otherwise.
“To the right! Crush them between the squares!” Torg bellowed and waved his sword from the center of one group. The dwarves pushed to the right as commanded, driving the horses and riders into the pikes bristling from the next square.
Alusair, in the center of a different square, watched as the Tuigan tried to press the attack. The horsemen found themselves spitted on pikes or knocked from their mounts. The latter often provided worse then a quick death by blade, as the rest of the barbarian attack crushed the hapless victims under horses’ hooves. And as more riders rushed to the battle, those caught in front against the immovable wall of well-armored, well-armed dwarves were slain with greater ease.
The bodies of the Tuigan dead were piled high around the squares. Wounded horses thrashed at the dwarves’ feet and became a fleshy wall bracing Torg’s troops from close assault, but not really hindering the reach of their long-handled pikes. The carrion crows had begun to circle around this bloody battlefield, too, though Alusair found the birds’ noisy, insistent cawing less disturbing than the dwarves’ disciplined silence. Even when faced with the Tuigan charge, the soldiers from Earthfast leaned silently into their grisly work, occasionally grunting as a pike struck home.
Finally, over the screams of the wounded humans and the clash of metal upon metal, the princess heard the steady beating of drums. Slowly at first, the Tuigan broke off. The dwarves took the enemy’s retreat as ample opportunity to slay some of the humans from behind. As Torg could have predicted, not a single dwarf broke rank.
The ironlord bellowed his laughter over the humans’ screams and the birds’ cries. He raised his beautifully crafted, blood-soaked sword high over his head and shouted his triumph. Without pause, the rest of the army from Earthfast joined in. The dwarves’ victory shout was very different from the Tuigan’s shrill, trilling war cry. It sounded like it came from deep within the earth itself, rolling and rumbling from the dwarves as if they echoed the noise of stone grating against stone deep within the mines they dug.
The cry chilled Alusair, but she’d heard it before. Perhaps it was the moans and screams the princess noticed behind the victory shout that made her shudder, or the blood she saw splattered across the pikes as the soldiers thrust them into the air. Perhaps it was the knowledge that a long afternoon of fighting lay ahead before her father would be safe. Whatever the cause of her discomfort, Alusair realized that now was not the time for celebrations.
“Ironlord,” she cried as she pushed through her square. “We must move quickly if we are to help the Alliance.”
Their shout ended, the dwarven soldiers eyed the princess warily as she shoved through the ranks. She had left her post without permission, an offense none of them would ever consider committing, and they silently showed their scorn for the action. Alusair ignored the glares she got and muscled past the few dwarves who purposefully stood in her way.
“I know the tactics we should follow, Princess,” Torg sighed as Alusair finally got near. “We will move as soon as we’ve collected trophies for the caves of Earthfast.” He wiped a fleck of blood from his gauntlet and ordered the men to reform into two lines to advance.
“Collect your severed heads after we’ve saved the rest of the Alliance,” Alusair snapped. She pointed toward the battle still raging a few hundred yards away. The Tuigan who had survived the assault on the dwarves, about half of the number that had charged, were now forming a flank to face the ironlord’s troops.
Torg frowned. “You’re right,” he grumbled. “We’d best get this over with.”
The dwarves advanced swiftly, but didn’t get too close to the Tuigan lines. They fired volley after volley of crossbow bolts into the enemy ranks, wreacking havoc. More than anything, the dwarven army proved a seemingly incurable distraction to the Tuigan’s right flank. The horsewarriors’ arrows had little effect on the heavy dwarven plate mail, and whenever a direct assault seemed imminent, Torg would order his men to form squares.
Whoever was directing the Alliance’s troops at that end of the line took full advantage of this distraction. The western infantry rallied and pressed hard against the Tuigan right, driving them closer to the dwarves’ crossbow barrage. Given little choice, the commander of the Tuigan in that part of the battle ordered a desperate assault on the troops from Earthfast.<
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Torg’s squares proved as effective in this combat as they had in the first encounter with the Tuigan. The ironlord slowly but surely moved the groups of pikemen down the hill, forcing the barbarians back to the western lines. With amazing speed, the dwarves and the western infantry destroyed the Tuigan flank, capturing its standard and the general who commanded it.
The rest of the battle dragged on through the afternoon, until the sun began to dip in the west. Smoke still billowed darkly across the field from the various brush fires that chewed away at the tall grass. Few arrows were launched now, but the air was still full of impatient dark shapes. Many of the crows had landed and fed, but more arrived all the time, drawn by the coppery smell of blood and the cries of their kin.
It wasn’t until the bright orb of the sun had sunk half below the horizon that the sound of drums echoed over the battlefield. In as orderly a fashion as possible, the Tuigan pulled back from the western line. Unsurprisingly, especially after the disastrous cavalry charge earlier in the day, no one moved to follow the enemy. A few longbows were hefted and arrows shot halfheartedly at the retreating horde, but the majority of Azoun’s troops stood in dazed silence. More than anything, they were surprised to be alive.
“Princess!” someone called in a deep, loud voice.
Alusair scanned the mass of western soldiers for the speaker. Men and women lay everywhere, wounded or dead. In a few places, soldiers cried softly for their fallen comrades, and prayers were muttered in musical, lilting voices all through the western lines. In the midst of all this, someone pressed toward the dwarven army, his hand held high.
“Your Highness! Over here!” the armored man shouted, waving his gauntlet in the air.
The press of soldiers parted for an instant, and Alusair saw that Farl Bloodaxe, his helmet tucked under his arm, was the one calling to her. The Cormyrian general smiled when the princess met his eyes, but that couldn’t hide the exhaustion on his face nor mask the beads of grimy sweat that rolled down his dark skin.