Secrets of the Night Special Edition (85 page)

Roric raised his arm. "Archers! Prepare to shoot!" The archers nocked their arrows, a look of fierce determination on their faces. Despite the chill, their faces shone with sweat.

He dropped his arm. "Loose arrows!”

A rain of arrows fell on Balor's men, stopping many. But they still kept coming!

Balor's archers shot their arrows upwards. Screams sounded from Roric’s men. A quick glance around showed Roric how many had fallen. Too many. Talmora’s bones, too many!

As soon as one row of Roric’s archers shot their missiles, they knelt to notch their arrows while the row behind them let loose. A continual shower of arrows poured down, so thick they blotted out everything else. Boulders tumbled down the hill, crushing everyone in their path, slowing Balor's archers.

A bugle sounded again on the plain. Balor's foot soldiers advanced noisily, yelling their war cries and banging weapons against shields. Swords flashed in the sunlight. As Roric's archers fell, more came forward to take their place, assuming position behind the trees. From both sides, a never-ending rain of arrows whizzed through the air. Blood soaked the ground and ran down the hill, a stream of death.

Weapon raised, his face infused with blood lust, a foot soldier rushed Roric. Roric lunged forward, his shield protecting his body. The swordsman slashed, but Roric parried the thrust. He stood his ground, meeting each thrust, sending the man staggering back. Ever watchful for a weak spot, he met each parry. With one unexpected movement, the soldier slashed at his arm. Just in time, Roric swayed back, the blade merely grazing his skin. The man raised his sword again, but Roric was ahead of him. One quick thrust sent his sword through the man's belly.

"Ahh!" The warrior crumpled and fell to the ground. Another swordsman menaced, but Roric met each strike, soon dispatching him with a jab to the throat.

Screams and cries merged with the clash of arms, the evil thud of weapons.

Bellows to his left jerked his attention from the fighting. Keriam had returned with over one-hundred outlanders, who advanced on foot. A bag at their side held stones for slinging; wooden clubs were strapped to their other side.

"Look at them!" Balor's men screamed and fell back in fear, many of them racing downhill again.

"What are they?"

"Monsters!"

Climbing up the hill, an enemy officer rallied his men, throwing taunts and encouragement in equal measure. The outlanders wound their arms overhead and released their stones. A stone struck the officer in the chin, knocking out his front teeth, breaking his jaw. Flinching for a moment, he proceeded up the hill. Yelling, he swung his sword in defiance, but another stone smashed him in the forehead. Silently, he fell to the ground.

Keriam, too, aimed a stone. It found its mark, hitting a warrior in the throat. Dispatching another foot soldier, Roric dashed to Keriam's side. Fear for her churned inside him. Discarding protocol, he grabbed her arm.

"For the Goddess's sake, stay out of harm's way. You've done more than enough!"

Her eyes flashed. "No one gives me orders! I'll stay here, where I'm needed."

"We need you
alive
, Kerry. We can't afford to lose you. I beg of you. Move farther back up the hill, away from danger."

"Very well. It will be as you say . . . for now."

Roric nodded, relieved to accept her temporary capitulation.

By now, the people of Moytura had gathered to view the battle, scattered close to the treeline that separated the meadow from the plain. Vendors moved among them, hawking their goods, selling cider, honey cakes, and other refreshments. “Princess, princess, princess!” the people cheered, yelling in desperation. “Kill Balor, Balor, Balor!”

Despite all obstacles, Balor's men continued to charge up the hill. Stones, arrows, and swords thinned their ranks. But Roric, too, was losing men, fighters he couldn't afford to lose. Balor's men still far outnumbered him, a ceaseless pool the fiend could draw from. At the far end of the plain, Balor's cavalry waited, pennants flying, horses stamping their hooves. And our cavalry is still miles away, Roric lamented. They would never arrive in time.

* * *

Balor raised his spyglass to view the action on the hill. Mounted on his horse, he thought furiously. Despite his abundant numbers, foot soldiers were falling at a rate he couldn't afford. He'd already lost too many archers. If he were willing to wait long enough, he would win the day. But patience was not his strong point, and Gamal's army was proving more resilient and cunning than he'd ever imagined. He still had his cavalry, horse soldiers he kept in reserve. But even they might prove vulnerable to the archers who held the hill. And the torathors! Shocked to find they weren't monsters after all, he realized their slings had proved deadly.

Thank the demoness for Mogh Nuadath, Colonel Riagan's aide, who'd told him of Gamal's visit to Uisnech moonphases ago. It paid to have loyal spies placed in strategic positions, else he would never have known of Gamal's southward advance.

He focused his spyglass again, then swung it all along the hill. Oh, he knew war; he'd fought his share of battles. But he couldn't permit this loss of life, not if he wanted to fight Elegia. In spite of his bold words to Gamal, he knew that country had a large, well-equipped army.

An idea jolted him, a means of ending the battle.

He snapped his fingers at an aide. "Tell the bugler to sound retreat."

The man stared at him. "Retreat, sire? But we are win--"

"A trick, you fool, as old as time!"

Within minutes, the bugle blared retreat, a sound carried to Balor's men on the hill. They paused, looking confused. Roric's men took advantage of their puzzlement, slashing and killing many. Balor's men raced down the hill and were sent to the rear.

"Stay here!" Roric yelled to his men, aware of the ruse. But none heard him. Pounding footfalls on the hard ground shook the earth. His men dashed downhill, screaming war cries, brandishing swords.
Sacred shrine, no!
Roric pressed his hands to his face and shook his head. After surrendering the high ground, how in the name of the Goddess could they win this day?

The outlanders, too, raced downhill, swinging their clubs in barbarous excitement. Dozens of enemy soldiers drew back in fear, dashing from the battlefield. An enemy officer rushed his horse in front of the deserters to stop them, but they ignored him as they ran for safety. Another blare from the bugle sent Balor's retreating foot soldiers back into the melee.

With little time to spare, Roric hurried to Keriam on the hill. Fighting for breath, his tunic soaked with blood, he handed her the spyglass. He must disregard his despair, must not give up. "Here! Use this to follow the battle. I must join the others."

"Roric, please take care of yourself." Lightly, she touched him on the cheek as she grasped the spyglass. "I don't want to lose you."

He took her hand in his and kissed the palm, smiling in a vain attempt to make light of their dilemma. "You know I'll be careful." He left her then, hastening down the rocky slope, sidestepping rocks and gnarled tree roots.

In the fray again, Roric fought as he'd never fought before. He parried, thrust, and hacked, dispatching several of the enemy. Still they came on, a constant barrage he must face. His arm ached, blood and sweat drenching his tunic. But there was no retreat for him.

* * *

Alone on the hillside, her heart pounding with fear for her men, Keriam raised the spyglass to watch the battle on the plain below. Her hands shook, and she stopped to take a deep breath, then raised the glass again. Hundreds, thousands! of men fought with desperation, swords flashing, headless bodies toppling to the ground. Even with the outlanders, Roric's men were terribly outnumbered, fighting a losing battle. Balor's cavalry, too, had joined in the struggle, the soldiers raised in the stirrups, slashing with deadly effect.
Goddess, how can we win?

Ravens lit on tree branches around Keriam, at first a few score, then more than a hundred, and soon, hundreds more. Ravens everywhere darkened tree branches, their beady eyes fixed on her.

What was their purpose here? Were they visiting her, as they had in the past? Or did they have a helpful motive? Optimism burst within her, but doubt, too. Looking at all the birds, she pointed to the battlefield, then at her forehead. She shook her head, her intention to advise them not to attack her men. The birds sat silent and motionless, as if absorbing her information. Were they here only to watch? Would they not help her? About to give up hope, she saw them lift off the tree limbs, then fly toward the battlefield. Her breath caught; she prayed that they understood her.

* * *

A noisy flapping of wings and a darkening of the sky jerked Roric's attention from the scene of carnage. Hundreds of birds flew overhead, then plunged downward. His stomach clenched. Talmora's bones! Why were they here? As if by augury, they dived at Balor's men, striking their heads, pecking eyes out. Screams and cries rent the air, louder than ever. Enemy soldiers pressed their hands to their eyes. Blackbirds aimed at throats, tearing at jugular veins. For the enemy, minutes seemed like hours. Black feathers floated through the air and littered the ground. Then, as though by signal, the birds flew off again with a clamorous flapping of wings. Heads raised, Balor's men followed their movement, crying with relief.

The fighting resumed with a clashing of shields and swords, the screams, cries, and moans of battle. Wounded horses reared and screamed, falling among the warriors, a death rattle in their throats. Soon the ground became wet and slippery with blood. Everywhere, the dead lay three deep, a jumble of missing limbs and headless bodies.

* * *

Next to a hemlock, Keriam edged closer to the battlefield, spyglass raised to her eyes. Her heart thudded, her hands clammy with sweat.

Out of nowhere, ghostly warriors materialized on the rocky hillside, hiding behind trees. To her right, Keriam caught a movement. Panic flared inside her, quickly doused when she saw it was yet another spirit. Clutching phantom swords and javelins, other ghosts joined the first group, soon dotting the hillside. Why were
they
here? And where was--

A man in a long black robe approached.

"King Malachy!" She pressed her hand to her heart, surprised to see him, wondering why his force had gathered here.

He inclined his head. "Always at your service, princess, especially this day." He indicated the warriors behind him. "It occurred to me that we could help you."

How could they help? These ghostly warriors could do no harm.

King Malachy pointed toward the battlefield. "Confusion, madam! We can spread such confusion among Balor's men, they won't know whom they are fighting."

"Ah, yes, I see. But King Malachy, your men must remember whom
they
are fighting. My soldiers wear a black headband."

"Yes." Malachy addressed the men on the hill, his words in a language from ages past. Faces set, they nodded in unison. Then Malachy motioned to these spirit warriors. "Follow me."

Silently, they dashed down the hillside, swords and javelins raised high. Within moments, they appeared on the plain, swords poised to strike, shields held close to their chests. Phantom javelins whizzed at the enemy. Hacking and slashing at Balor's men, the warriors did no harm but caused incredible bewilderment.

"Who are these men?" a warrior cried.

"Fool! Can't you see they're ghosts?"

"Ghosts! But they are attacking only our men, not the other side!"

Crying in terror, dozens more of Balor's men rushed from the field.

At first, Roric's men wrenched back in fright, but upon seeing the spirits attack none but Balor's men, they rejoined the fray with fresh vigor. More enemy fell, dead and wounded. The usurper king's soldiers stepped on top of their fallen comrades. Puzzlement hindered their movements, their strikes directed at apparitions.

Then the ghostly warriors disappeared as abruptly as they'd arrived, returning to Otherwhere.

Balor's men watched their departure with relief, a relief that was short-lived. The ravens returned.

"No! Not again!"

Warriors threw their javelins at the birds; many swung their swords wildly, all of them missing their target.

“Goddess, save me, save me!” Screaming soldiers raced from the field to hide behind trees in the meadow. Others remained, covering their eyes, clutching their throats. Striking the fighters from all directions, the birds stayed longer this time. They whirled and dipped and dived, aiming for eyes and throats, pecking at arms and legs. After endless minutes, they flew off again, leaving dead and sightless soldiers behind. Screams and cries rent the air, a relentless assault that pierced Keriam’s eardrums.

She caught Balor in the spyglass. The fiend rode everywhere, dashing from one spot to another, his sword raised in the air, yelling encouragement and threats to his men. The fighting continued, the odds much better for her army now. Injured from both sides screamed and cried, begging for help. Wounded and dying horses cried in agony, blood spurting from throats, steaming entrails pouring from their stomachs.