Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

For hours that fight had raged back and forth across the square. The energy of the Klar charge had been dispersed on the right flank as the undisciplined troops had broken away from their companies to plunder and drink. Roaring laughter and bawdy songs rose, incongruously, from many of the taverns and ale stalls on the fringe of the square.

Willim knew there was no point in even trying to rally those troops until the plundering and the carousing and their aftereffects had passed.

In the center and to the right, the more disciplined formations of Hylar, Theiwar, and Daergar troops had battled themselves to exhaustion against the firm stand of the Royal Division. Casualties had been heavy on both sides, and a lull had settled over that area as both offensive and defensive troops sought the rest, water, and food that was necessary before they could resume the fighting.

With a muttered curse, Willim teleported to General Darkstone’s headquarters, hastily established on the second floor of a masonry shop at the edge of the square. From there, the veteran commander could observe the royal palace nearly a mile away.

“Why aren’t you pressing the attack?” demanded the black wizard, materializing next to the general, who didn’t flinch at his sudden appearance.

“We carried the outer defenses in the first rush, my lord,” General Darkstone reported stolidly. “But the city defenders rallied surprisingly well. They have met each of our probes with fierce counterattacks. We cut them down by the dozens, but they bring up replacements by the hundreds. Now, in the center, we have two full divisions standing against us.”

“Then kill them by the hundreds or the thousands!” Willim snapped, gesturing irritably.

Darkstone, no fool, bit his tongue rather than make an impertinent reply. Instead, he stared as though thinking before nodding tersely.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “We hear them still invoking the king’s name, Master. It would seem that the assassination attempt was not successful.”

“No!” barked the wizard, though it was news to him-bad news. Gypsum and Facet had failed? How could that have happened? Even as he pondered the prospect, he pictured Facet slain, maybe captured, and felt a surprising pang of heartache at the thought she might be dead. Why did she affect him so? What sort of bewitchment did she possess?

“What about the Black Cross?” Willim pointed at the deadly regiment of Daergar heavy infantry, currently idle in the rear ranks of the center column.

“Yes, I’m holding them in reserve, sir. In the event of an enemy breakthrough, we’ll need them to plug the gap.”

“An enemy breakthrough?” snapped the black robe wizard. “It is we who will do the breaking through! Send them now to the attack. And that’s an order!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Blade Darkstone evenly. Though he disagreed with the command, he knew it would be unwise to say so. Instead, he ordered a signal flag raised, and the Black Cross regiment started moving forward.

“What about the heavy infantry?” muttered Willim darkly.

The old commander repressed a sigh, saluting firmly. “Master, that part of the Black Cross I was also holding in reserve. However, they are ready,” he reported.

Willim gestured impatiently at the tight, neat ranks of the Daergar heavy infantry unit. They covered a front some two hundred yards wide, with sword- and shield-bearing heavy troops in the front, a rank of spearmen behind, another line of heavy troops in the third rank, and the elite crossbow teams in the very back of the formation. “Send them in!”

General Darkstone gave the signal.

The main complex of fortifications was firmly in the control of General Darkstone’s forces, and the other gatehouses were also in the hands of the attackers, who blocked all routes of access between Norbardin and the Urkhan Sea. But the royal garrison troops of the First Division had marched into the middle of the great square and formed a line that the rebels had not been able to crack.

Willim cast a fireball to open the attack, sending the churning sphere of flame through the very center of the royal ranks. A hundred dwarves died on the spot, but before Darkstone’s skirmishers could rush into the gap, a full complement of reinforcements charged up and over the still-smoldering bodies of their slain comrades to again tighten the formation and hold the line.

Willim and his general watched as the Black Cross and the heavy infantry moved into position for a full-on assault against the royal defenders.

“Those are General Ragat’s men,” Darkstone declared, watching the royal troops as they stoically prepared their defenses. “I’d know that drill anywhere.”

“What does it matter who commands them?” snapped Willim. “I want them pushed out of the way!”

“It’s the commander what makes all the difference,” Darkstone retorted, in a tone that sounded very much like insolence to the short-tempered wizard. “Any other general, and they’d have routed away when that fire blew out their center.”

Willim stared at the flanks of the Royal Division, where a motley lot of citizens, no doubt the king’s pathetic conscripts, were rushing forward to support the veteran troops. The recent arrivals, a veritable mob, were armed with pitchforks, hammers, picks, and a few swords and spears. If anything, they would weaken the defense.

Willim spotted Captain Veinslitter in the middle of the Black Cross regiment. The Daergar leader wore a silver helm that was festooned with a crimson plume, and he was looking up at the rampart, toward his general and the wizard. Feeling those eyes upon him, Willim nodded, and General Darkstone ordered the climactic attack forward.

With a roar of battle lust, the Daergar attacked. They advanced in a rush, sword tips extended past the line of shields. Even at full speed, their discipline held-there was no wavering in the straightness of the line, no gap opening between one fleet dwarf and his slower comrade. Like an advancing wall of steel, the Black Cross bore down on the ill-equipped and virtually unarmored troops of the king’s militia.

The roar of the charge swelled into a thunder as a thousand throats chanted “Black-Black-Black!” in steadily hastening cadence. They were calling out the name of their own unit, but Willim the Black allowed himself to reflect on the irony that it was his name as well. Plus it was the stark and chilling color of the order of magic he had cherished all his life. The power of the Black Robes: soon it would rule Thorbardin!

Shortly, the rebels’ shield wall smashed into the first of the defending troops. The hammers and pitchforks of the royal contingent broke against the steel shields, and the untrained troops dropped by the score. Yet they showed a fanatical willingness to die and fell back only when the Black Cross veterans put their shoulders down and pressed ahead in murderous fashion. The line of battle surged, shouts and screams rising from the wounded, and finally the irregulars started to roll back, pushed and trampled.

The line of the Daergar veterans wavered once or twice as some pockets of resistance proved more stubborn than others, but it made a steady advance. The hobnailed boots of the heavy infantry stomped over the bleeding bodies of the enemy wounded and slain, and the dwarves put their weight against the heavy steel shields, pressing ahead. Their swords, every blade streaked with blood, hacked and gouged at the mass of defenders.

“They show some courage, Master,” General Darkstone allowed as more and more of the militia troops hurled themselves into the fray to assist the royal guards.

“Then let them be courageous fools!” snapped Willim. “I want their blood to flow like a river down the streets!”