The Swords of Night and Day (49 page)

Five boulders were now rumbling down the slope. They picked up speed, bouncing off the rock face to the right. One of them rolled over the edge long before it reached the Jiamads. Another hit the cliff face and stopped. The rest thundered on, picking up speed. The charging Jiamads stopped as they realized the danger. They turned and tried to run. The officer’s horse reared as he dragged on the reins. Then a boulder struck the piebald, hurtling it over the edge. The officer managed to kick his feet clear of the stirrups just before the boulder struck, and threw himself from the doomed horse.

Harad stared down through the dust cloud the avalanche had caused. At least ten of the Jiamads had been swept to their deaths, or crushed. The others regrouped. The officer, his plumed helmet gone, waved his sword in the air, pointing up the mountainside. And the enemy came on again.

Shakul and the pack waited. Stavut moved up to stand at the center, Harad alongside him.

“I hate fighting,” said Stavut.

“Picked the wrong place to be,” muttered Harad.

As the enemy neared, Stavut shouted at the top of his voice, “Kill them all!” With a great roar the pack hurled themselves at the enemy. Harad ran with them. A massive beast swung an iron club at his head. Harad ducked and sent Snaga crunching through its ribs. Then he shoulder-charged the dying beast, thrusting it aside as he hurled himself at another. Shakul grabbed a Jiamad by the throat and groin, hoisting it into the air and flinging the hapless beast back into his comrades. Stavut whacked his saber at a charging Jiamad. The blade bounced away, causing no more than a shallow cut. The beast grabbed Stavut by the shirt, dragging him toward its fangs. A mighty blow from Shakul struck the side of its head. Dropping Stavut, it turned toward Shakul. The two beasts roared and hurled themselves at one another.

Stavut pushed himself to his feet and gathered up his fallen saber. The plateau echoed with the sounds of snarls and cries. Shakul tore the throat from his opponent and rushed back into the fray. Harad was attacking with relentless power, blocking and cutting, the great ax cleaving through fur, flesh, and bone. Stavut ran to help him, leaping over fallen beasts and ducking around others who were still fighting. The officer of the Eternal Guard saw him and rushed in. Stavut blocked a fierce thrust, then threw himself back as a second slashed toward his belly. The blade flicked up, tearing his shirt and nicking the skin of his chest. Holding the saber two-handed Stavut slashed and cut, but his attack was easily parried. “You are dead meat!” sneered the officer.

Harad, who was close by, smashed Snaga into the face of an attacking beast, then leapt toward the Guardsman. The soldier saw him coming and swung to meet the new threat. With no concern for fairness Stavut rushed in, plunging his saber through the man’s throat. As he did so, he saw that Harad’s attempt to save him had put the axman in peril. He had turned his back on the Jiamads coming at him. Stavut tried to call out a warning. A club thundered against Harad’s head. The big man staggered. Stavut leapt to his aid. Harad, blood streaming from his temple, clove Snaga through his attacker’s chest.

The enemy broke—the survivors running back down the trail.

Stavut, feeling light-headed with relief, sought out Shakul. The big beast was bleeding from several shallow cuts and gashes. “Are you all right?” asked Stavut.

“Strong,” answered Shakul. Stavut moved around the killing ground. He found eight of his pack dead, and four others wounded. Then he saw Grava lying close to the precipice. Running to him, he squatted down. “No, no, no!” he pleaded. “Don’t you dare be dead!” Cradling the elongated head, he felt for a pulse. He couldn’t find one. Shakul leaned over, his snout close to Grava’s mouth.

“Breathes,” said Shakul. “Not dead.”

Stavut stared up at the sky. “Thank you!” he shouted. Grava groaned, his golden eyes opening. He stared at Stavut, then said something unintelligible, his long tongue lolling from his elongated mouth.

“Good to see you, too,” said Stavut, happily. Rising, he turned and stared down the slope. “Will they come back?” he asked Shakul.

“Officer dead. They run now. Others come back. Maybe.”

“We won, Shak! We beat them!”

Then he saw Harad lying facedown on the ground close by. Stavut ran to him, rolling him to his back. Harad’s face was gray. Shakul loomed above him. “No breath,” he said. “Friend dead.”

Suddenly Harad’s body spasmed, and ice-blue eyes flared open. “Dead?” he said. “In your dreams, laddie!”

S
kilgannon, dressed now in Alahir’s old armor and chain-mail hauberk, knelt at the center of the Drenai defensive line. All around him stood the grim warriors of the Legend riders, arrows nocked to their bows. Beside him knelt Decado, wearing the armor of one of the riders killed in the battle with the lancers. Skilgannon felt uncomfortable in the heavy chain mail, which, while not initially restricting movement, would leach energy from the wearer by its weight alone. Normally Skilgannon preferred speed and freedom of movement, but today the battle would be fought in close confinement, and there was no way he could avoid swords or spears being thrust at him during the initial melee.

Farther down the ancient road the Eternal Guard had drawn up. They could see the Legend riders waiting for them, and Skilgannon watched as their officers gathered together, discussing strategy. He hoped they would take some time, not because he feared the coming battle, but because lengthy discussion among them would show indecision. There was no such delay. Within moments orders were called out, and the Eternal Guard dismounted and put aside their lances. Round infantry shields were unloaded from several wagons at the rear of the column and passed to the warriors. Skilgannon shivered suddenly. The emblem on the shields was the spotted snake—an emblem he had devised for the queen of Naashan’s troops so many centuries ago. Back then the men who fought under that emblem had been his; highly trained, superbly disciplined, and wondrously brave.

A quarter mile below, the Eternal Guard formed up smoothly. There was no sense of excitement, no indication of alarm or concern. These were fighting men.

Skilgannon glanced to left and right. He had instructed Alahir to place the burliest and most powerful of his riders at the front of the line, ready to stand their ground against the onslaught. Once the two forces clashed there would be a period of heaving and pushing for ground. It was vital that the line was not forced back in these early moments.

“Fine-looking bunch, aren’t they?” observed Decado.

Skilgannon did not reply. The Eternal Guard had begun to march. Beyond them more than a hundred huge Jiamads waited. Alahir had been right. The Guard wanted the honor and the glory of defeating the Drenai.

Shields held high, the Guard came on. There were no battle cries, merely the rhythmic sound of booted feet, marching in step. Alahir eased his way through to the front of the Drenai line. Then he, too, knelt, to give the archers behind him a clear view of the enemy. The Armor of Bronze gleamed in the afternoon sun, glittering on the winged helm and the bright sword in his hand.

As the road narrowed, the Guard came into range. They knew what they were facing, but they did not hesitate. Skilgannon found himself admiring these brave men, and a heaviness settled on his heart. Good, brave men were going to die today, robbing the world of their courage, their spirit, and their passion.

“Now!” yelled Alahir.

Hundreds of barbed shafts tore into the ranks of the marching men. Most thudded into shields or ricocheted from iron armor. Many others sliced into flesh. Soldiers fell—but still the Guard came on. A shouted order came from within their ranks, and they broke into a run. More volleys struck them, thinning the ranks. Then, when they were less than twenty paces from the waiting Legend riders, Alahir raised his sword. The front line of the defenders passed their bows back to the men behind, drew their sabers, and, with Alahir, Skilgannon, and Decado in the lead, charged into the fray.

Skilgannon blocked a wicked thrust, shoulder-charged the soldier, hurling him back. The Swords of Night and Day flashed in the sunshine, cutting left and right. Alongside him Alahir clove into the ranks of the Guard, the golden sword stained now with crimson.

Behind them, higher up the hill, a hundred bowmen continued to rain arrows down on the Guard trying to join the fight. As Skilgannon had predicted the men were close packed, unable to raise their shields. Sharp arrows ripped into flesh, and the sound of clashing arms was interspersed with the screams of dying warriors. Greater weight of numbers began to force the Drenai line back.

Another fifty archers dropped their bows and rushed forward to reinforce the line. Skilgannon blocked a thrusting sword and sent a lunging riposte through the face of the attacker. The man fell back. Another took his place. Skilgannon was fighting now with a cold, remorseless fury, hacking and cutting, his swords always in motion, glittering and flashing as they clove through armor and bone. Alongside him Decado and Alahir were holding their ground, but on both flanks the Guard were pushing ahead. Soon the three warriors would be surrounded.

Gilden hurled himself forward, seeking to link up with Alahir. A sword blade gouged into his thigh. Another clattered against his helm. Ducking down, he threw himself at the men ahead of him, knocking one man from his feet and forcing another back. Gilden’s saber slashed out, and the dagger in his left hand slammed into the unprotected neck of an oncoming Guardsman. Other defenders surged after Gilden, and for a while the line held.

But the Guard did not break. Slowly, inexorably, they were winning.

As with all great war leaders Skilgannon, despite being at the center of the fight, could feel the ebb and flow of the conflict. The Legend riders were battling bravely, but he could sense their growing uncertainty. The Guard were fighting now with more vigor as they caught the scent of victory. A sword hammered into Skilgannon’s hauberk. The chain mail stopped the blow from cutting flesh, but the bruising force almost knocked him from his feet. Surging up, he killed the attacker. Then another—creating a brief space around himself. Alahir, his face smeared with blood, was trying to push forward into the enemy ranks, but the shields closed against him, and he, too, was forced back.

Guardsmen surged past Skilgannon on both sides as the Drenai line behind him gave way. There was nothing Skilgannon could do now, save to fight on.

Suddenly the air was filled with snarling screams. The body of a Guardsman came hurtling past Skilgannon. Then Shakul appeared. His huge fist crashed against a wooden shield, splintering it. The great beast grabbed the warrior holding it, hauling him high into the air and flinging him into the ranks of the oncoming Guardsmen.

Another figure loomed. It was Harad.

Skilgannon—for the moment having no foes to face—saw the axman hurl himself into the fight. Snaga rose and fell, cleaving and killing. Skilgannon’s eyes narrowed. Harad had always been powerful, but he lacked experience. That deficiency could not be seen now. The axman powered forward in perfect balance, and the Guardsmen were falling back before the ferocity of his assault.

Yet still the Eternal Guard did not break. Skilgannon charged in, Alahir alongside him. The Legend riders surged forward, pushing the Guard back toward the narrowest point of the road. The battle became even more chaotic, the dead and dying trampled underfoot.

A trumpet sounded—and the Guard pulled back. Even in retreat they kept their discipline, the front line steadily backing away.

Some of the Legend riders began to give chase. Alahir called them back. “Re-form!” he shouted. Smoothly they pulled back to their original fighting line. Harad walked back to stand before Skilgannon.

“Is it you?” asked the warrior softly.

“Aye, laddie. I’m back for a time.”

Skilgannon wanted to say more, but two men appeared at the narrowest point of the road. Both were slim and young, and they wore no armor. They approached Alahir and bowed. The first, stoop shouldered and balding, spoke. “I am Warna Set, surgeon to the First. This is my assistant, Anatis. By your leave I will attend the Guard wounded. Do you have a surgeon with you?”

“We do not,” Alahir told him.

“If it is agreeable to you, my general offers the assistance of Anatis for your own wounded. He also request you allow us to remove the dead from the battlefield.” Alahir gazed back along the road at the fallen men, some of them writhing in pain. Then he glanced at Skilgannon.

“How long will this truce last?” Skilgannon inquired.

The sun was already beginning to fall. Warna Set turned to Skilgannon. “The general says that he will hold off the next attack until sunrise.”

“You may signal our agreement,” Skilgannon told him. The surgeon bowed and returned to the Guard. Anatis remained. He was a small man, sandy haired, with large, brown eyes. His features were soft, almost feminine.

“Might I begin my work, sir?” he asked Skilgannon.

“Of course. We are grateful for your assistance.”

Anatis smiled wearily. “My talents would be better used among people who did not seek to cut each other to pieces. Assign me some men, for those wounded who can be moved to a safer place. I understand there is water close by.”

“Yes.”

“The wounded should be carried there, and those without stomach wounds encouraged to drink.” Then he moved back to walk among the wounded. Alahir told Gilden to assist him.

“I don’t know who their general is,” said Alahir to Skilgannon, “but I must say I warm to him.”

“Aye, it is a fine gesture, but it also has strategic merit. His own men know they will receive treatment if wounded, and will not be merely cast aside. Allowing us a surgeon also means we are less likely to butcher wounded Guardsmen. The man is a thinker.”

The sound of a horse’s hooves upon stone broke through the conversation. Skilgannon swung to see Decado riding out from the entrance to the pool. He strolled back to where the dark-haired young swordsman sat his mount. “Leaving us so soon?” asked Skilgannon.