Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

It took several blasts of the lookouts’ horns to penetrate their concentration and warn Amero of a new threat. Through the orchard came several very large rafts, pushed over the tilled earth by a swarm of slaves. Once shoved onto the lake, men and horses filed onto these oversized rafts. They rode easily in the calm water.

Amero felt his heart sink. He’d been outflanked. There was nothing to stop the raiders from landing on the east shore. He’d gambled Zannian wouldn’t strike so far south, and he’d lost the gamble.

“Stand up!” he cried. Those around him looked puzzled, their attention still fixed on the fight at the bridge crossing. “Stand up! Sling your shields and couch your spears! We’ve got to stop them!”

Amero led them up the hill to the stone flats above the lake. He let the fleetest young people sprint ahead, with orders to torch the hoist to Duranix’s cave and the other wooden structures outside the wall. By the time his band had re-formed on the shore, smoke was already rising from the hoist. At least the raiders wouldn’t be able to use the dragon’s cave to get above Yala-tene.

From midlake, Zannian saw the villagers break and run. He rejoiced at first, thinking they were quitting the fight. When he saw them take up a new position to oppose his landing, his delight faded. He was certain his two hundred mounted warriors would trample the foolish villagers into the mud, but he’d hoped for a rout, not a hard, bitter fight.

“No mercy,” he reminded his men. “We must hit them fast and hard and not let them escape to that pile of mud and stone they call a village.”

The wind shifted, blowing smoke from the burning huts over the lake. It obscured the beach as well, but Zannian kept the rafts going straight ahead. When they finally pad-died clear of the smoke, he saw the villagers had adopted a new formation. Unlike the solid wall of shields they’d used earlier, they were now disposed in a hollow circle, two ranks deep. A smaller band of fighters, shieldless, stood in the center of the circle.

Zannian frowned. What were the mud-toes up to now?

As planned, the trailing rafts had pushed off to each side, so that all would land at the same time. Zannian expected a fight at the water’s edge, but the villagers were drawn up on the highest point of the rocky ledge overlooking the lake. This was a grave mistake. His men would be able to disembark, mount, and then attack.

The rafts bumped ashore. Without waiting to lead his horse onto dry land, Zannian swung onto the animal’s back and raised his sword.

“For Almurk, and victory!” he cried, and dug in his heels. The gray stallion sprang into the shallow water and splashed ashore.

Amero watched the raiders. “Are you ready?” he asked his people. They answered with silent nods, eyes on the approaching enemy. “Then let’em have the stones.”

The villagers in the center of the armed circle, all strong young men, picked up stones and hurled them at the gathering raiders. The rocks had been chiseled with sharp edges and the muscular youths delivered them with great force. Several raiders went down with bleeding heads.

As calmly as he could, Amero said, “Shields overhead.”

As he expected, the infuriated Zannian called forth a shower of darts in retaliation. With their shields over their heads, the villagers absorbed the heavy hail of darts with no ill effects.

The last raiders ashore mounted their horses. “Everyone ready?” asked Amero. Again, the silent nods. He gave the signal, waving his arms.

The front and rear of the circle opened, and villagers came running down from the cliffs, rolling flaming logs ahead of them. Thirty paces from the enemy, the log rollers let go. The nine large timbers, taken from the burning buildings outside the wall, smashed into the riders coming up the hill, scattering them.

*

Zannian had to do some fancy riding to keep his horse from being bowled over by a blazing tree trunk. Once the fiery logs had passed, he rode among his confused men, hitting them with the flat of his sword, kicking them, swearing at them. By the time he settled them again, Amero’s band had withdrawn higher up the slope.

“They want to play tricks, do they?” Zannian fumed. “I’ll teach them some tricks!”

He divided his men into two groups. One, he sent down low along the lakeshore toward the village. The other, which he led, walked their horses slowly up the hill to where Amero’s people waited.

“Darts,” Zannian commanded. The raiders loaded their throwing sticks. “Give them three rounds of darts, then we charge!”

Arms whipped forward, lofting a storm of lethal missiles at the villagers. They held their shields up as before, but they had been weakened by the earlier barrage, and this time many of the flint-headed darts got through. Villagers toppled. The injured and the dead were pulled out of line, and the ring tightened. A second and third volley of darts swept over the circle of spears, then the deadly bombardment ceased.

The raiders launched themselves in a final furious attack. Zannian drove straight for the center of the circle. His horse was speared, and fell. He threw himself off and fought on foot.

The horsemen rode over the resolute villagers, breaking their line in three places. A group of young villagers who had been held in reserve now pushed forward to drive the invaders out of the circle.

Zannian laid about with his long Silvanesti blade. Bronze cut through wooden shields, spearshafts, and flesh with equal ease. In moments the young warlord had hacked his way to the center of the villagers’ formation.

Amero, using a small buckler faced with dragon scales, squared off against the raider chief. Zannian was half a head taller, much younger, and more skilled at hand-to-hand combat. Amero quickly found himself in trouble. His sword was knocked from his grasp, and only the bronze buckler kept him from being hacked to bits.

Time seemed to stand still. Raiders and villagers locked in close, bloody combat fought and died in cruel balance, neither side gaining the upper hand. Riderless horses cantered back and forth, crazed by the cacophony of battle and their own wounds. Injured fighters cried out for water, for mercy, for their chief, for their Arkuden.

Into this maelstrom galloped the second batch of raiders, sent down low along the beach. They tackled the stubborn villagers from behind and broke them. Men and women threw down their shields and spears and ran for their lives. Most never made it. Faced at last with a type of fighting they knew well, the raiders rode them down before they reached the wall.

Zannian presented the point of his sword to Amero’s throat. “Yield!” he cried. “Yield, and I will spare you!”

“Do your worst!” Amero spat, and batted the sword away with his scale-covered shield.

Furious, Zannian made a savage overhand slash. Amero stepped into the swing, allowing the blade to pass behind, and rammed his bronze buckler into his foe’s belly. The raider chief doubled over. With all his strength, Amero brought the shield up, connecting solidly with Zannian’s jaw. The young chiefs arms flew wide, his legs flew up, and down he went on his back. Amero, elated by the success of his desperate gambit, didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran.

The walls of Yala-tene were lined with people shouting and waving. They flung stones, pots, and firewood at the approaching raiders. Others dropped knotted ropes to the ground, so their fleeing friends could climb to safety. Wild with apparent victory, the raiders rode right up to the foot of the wall and grappled with those trying to escape. They were soon overwhelmed by a lethal barrage of debris thrown down on them, and the survivors quickly fled out of range.

Amero was the last to reach the wall. Those above, thinking no one else was left alive below, had withdrawn their ropes and ladders. Amero warded off raiders’ darts with his bronze buckler as he screamed for a rope.