Glen Cook - An Ill Fate Marshalling

No. The legionnaires just stood there, this side of the second ditch, resting behind their shields, daring him to mount a counterattack. He did not. He would not. Not till they compressed his forces a good deal more. Not till they had taken more casualties and were even more tired.

The casualty ratio favored Kavelin. The battle was a bloodbath, but Shinsan was doing more of the bleeding.

Sir Gjerdrum took advantage of the lull. „We're doing good over my way," he reported. „Considering who we're up against. I'd swear we're taking three of them down for every one we lose."

„That good? Maybe we'll go your way when we try the breakout."

„Think the third line will hold?"

„Can't say. They'll have to come against mostly fresh men. They'll show just how good they are if they do break it."

„Something stirring down there. I'd better get back."

Hsung's reserves crossed the trenches. A thousand men, Bragi estimated. Would they lead the next assault?

Where was the damned witchery?

Shinsan's drums altered their beat. The battle resumed.

The third line proved less stout than Ragnarson had hoped. Soon he was rushing reserves here and there to shore up weak spots. „Messenger!" he finally howled. „Get me Sir Gjerdrum." He scowled in the direction of the Dragon's Teeth. „Wizard, you'd better hope I don't get out of this. Because if I do, I'll get you." Then he laughed at himself. „Fool. Blaming it on somebody else. All your own fault, you know."

Sir Gjerdrum found him readying himself for battle. His bodyguard had formed the drummers, trumpeters, cooks, and least badly injured into a final reserve pool. „Sire? You wanted me?"

„Damned right. Start extricating your horsemen. It's time to try a breakout."

Gjerdrum scanned the action. „That would weaken the lines too much, wouldn't it?"

„Maybe. I'm taking this crowd down to stiffen them."

„Is that wise? If you're injured the men will lose heart."

„They'd collapse right now if they could. Half of them would run if there was anywhere to go. Gjerdrum, we're going to go down unless we do something. I know there's no room to launch a decent charge, but give it a try."

„What about the ditches?"

„What about them?"

Gjerdrum held his tongue. The ditches would kill men and animals. „Nothing, Sire. I understand." The situation was worse than he had thought. The hour of desperation had come.

„Varthlokkur may still show, Gjerdrum. Hang onto that." Ragnarson glared at the enemy headquarters. A handful of Tervola stood watching the hill. „Why haven't they used the Power?"

„I don't know, Sire. I almost wish they would."

„Do it when you're ready, Gjerdrum. I'll be too busy to give orders."

„As you command, Sire." Gjerdrum strode away.

Bragi ducked into his tent, collected his personal bow and arrows, signalled his bodyguard to follow him. He marched down the hill, selected a good vantage, loosed shafts careful­ ly. Each found a mark. The damage stalled the enemy in that sector. During the disorganization he forced his way into the battle line. A ragged cheer arose. It rolled round the line and came back, and began rolling again. „Remember Baxendala! Remember Palmisano!" The enemy troops wouldn't know what the shout of defiance meant, but the Tervola below would hear it and be piqued.

Shield smashed against shield. Swords clanged. Bragi used every vile trick he knew. He sent an eastern soldier to his knees. Another took his place. The tides pushed them apart. Bragi faced a third opponent. The man on his right fell with a cry. Another bodyguard took his place.

The shout went up again. „Remember Palmisano!"

Bragi hardly noticed. His mind had gone on pure auto­ matic. Stroke. Heave shield. Kick. Parry. Stab. Howl. Curse. Sweat. Especially sweat. Curse again as a vicious blow hit his shield so hard his arm went numb.

He had been here a thousand times. All the battles of his life melded into this one. He no longer knew or cared whom he fought. Time stood still.

But time hadn't stood still for his flesh. He was a man in his forties. He didn't have the stamina of decades past. His legs were pillars of stone, his arms limp bars of lead. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging. And still! he fought, lost in the dust and stink and bang and clang.

He did not hear the trumpets sound Sir Gjerdrum's charge. He did not witness it, either. Sir Gjerdrum led his charge down the nether face of the hill. He did respond when neighboring companies began backpedaling, drifting toward the opening Gjerdrum rent.

The shouting and cursing redoubled. Horses without riders screamed and reared and tried to flee through the press. Wounded men and animals carpeted the earth.

Bragi's bodyguards shouted at him to back off, to let them surround him. He flung a wild stroke at an enemy soldier, ducked back.

Something like a god's hammer hit his ribs on his left side. The breath exploded out of him. He couldn't groan. He felt his broken ribs grating. His bodyguards seized him, kept him upright. Red swirled around him, became black­ ness.

Gjerdrum was disappointed. Too many of the horsemen had fallen already, and he'd been able to extricate only a portion of the survivors. He guessed he had at most five hundred with which to attempt the breakout. He formed them with knights at the shock point, light horse behind and on the flanks, charged with keeping the aisle open once the knights broke through.

„Ready?" he asked.

„Ready, sir," the officers replied. They were pale, unsure. They too knew the ditches would be bad.

Gjerdrum scanned the fighting. The lines were holding. The ragged Palmisano cheer ran round and round the circle. Maybe it would be better to stand here. He had his orders. „Sound the advance."

Horns blared. Gjerdrum started forward at a walk. The infantry had been warned. He hoped they were paying attention.

They were. They began forming aisles. Gjerdrum spurred his mount.

There wasn't much room, but he did get up a little speed. He drove his lance into the eye of an enemy, yanked it free, struck at another. His mount ploughed into the line. Enemy soldiers flew away. His lance snapped. He drew his sword, flailed about himself. His companions pressed from behind, driving him through. His animal lurched forward, toward the ditch.

He glanced back. A rent a hundred yards wide had been torn through the circle. Already the army was pouring through.

He looked forward again, estimating the ditch, trying to decide where to form up once he reached the plain. He had to hit the enemy headquarters... .

A shadow caught his eye. He glanced up. Already the crows were circling.

The ditch! He reined in frantically. He could negotiate it by walking his mount.

Someone ploughed into him from behind. His mount tripped over a corpse, went down in front. He tumbled forward.

„Oh, damn!" The earth came up to meet him. The wind burst out of him. Feebly, he fought to regain his feet. The weight of his armor was too much for his weakened muscles.

He did make it to his knees.

A knight plowed into him. He went over backward, tumbling into the ditch. His helmet flew off. He lost his sword. He came to rest on his back.

He saw a screaming horse and flailing rider falling side­ ways toward him. A wild, ironshod hoof drove toward his face. He flung up an arm. Too late.

There was but an instant of pain before the Dark Lady gathered him to her bosom.

When consciousness returned Ragnarson found himself at the top of the hill, supported between two bodyguards, in plain view of friend and foe. The battle continued, but the third line had broken. The enemy had forced a melee. He swore. Bloody spittle dribbled into his beard. „Sir Gjerdrum?" he croaked.