Douglas Niles - Kagonesti

"Boodle gets you lost, right quick!" Toofer snapped. "But I knows the ways!"

"Look!" cried another gully dwarf, who had crept toward the still-opened doors and looked out on the plateau beyond. "They're doin' a parade!"

Ash remembered the knights and vividly pictured what the dwarf imagined as a "parade." The elf sprang back to the doorway, stepping out just far enough to get a view of the wide, flat ground to the east of the city.

The first thing that caught his eye was the rank of knights. True to his plan, Sir Kamford had led his company down the trail in the predawn shadows. His stealthy approach had no doubt been aided by the darkness cloaking the west-facing slope of the descent. In any event, the knights had apparently arrived at the foot of the mountain without being detected.

Now, as Ashtaway watched the last of the horsemen take up positions in the center of the line, they formed into a long, single rank. Lances raised, horses prancing anxiously, the Solamnic riders sat straight and proud in their saddles-as if they held themselves aloof from the chaos they were about to bring upon this valley.

An ogre sentry near one of the grain barns shouted, voice shrill with panic, and others took up the cry as the dawn mist parted to reveal the line of steel and flesh. A battle horn brayed somewhere in the midst of the labor camps, and the elf saw small groups of ogres lumbering toward the field. Many more figures-most of them slaves, no doubt-streamed out of the camps, toward shelter in the fiery, tangled city below.

The sun crested the ridge behind the knights, piercing beneath the heavy layer of overcast with shocking brilliance, like a wave of fire sweeping from the heavens into the seething hell of Sanction. Sunlight glinted like diamonds off the silver armor of the horsemen. Ashtaway realized that the knights had scrubbed the clay and the mud from their armor, discarding the leafy camouflage they had worn during the mountain trek. Polished, gleaming, and immaculate, they rode horses brushed sleek, with silken manes flowing in the wind.

For the first time Ash understood that it was more than vanity that had caused the knights to spend so much time cleaning and polishing their equipment. The pristine rank, appearing as if by magic against Sanction's unprotected flank, must have seemed to the enemy like some ethereal strike force dispatched by Paladine himself to smite his enemies.

Now the men put their heels to the horses, and the long line of steeds commenced to advance at a slow, deliberate walk-a pace that was, by its precise and unhurried nature, in some ways more frightening than a thundering gallop. Lances raised high, the riders quickly accelerated into a pounding, steady trot. Ash was particularly impressed by the way in which the rank never wavered- each of the horses moved at exactly the same pace. Spread across the broad field, the line of the charge stretched for nearly half a mile-a startling breadth of frontage for the relatively small number of attackers.

Ashtaway knew that no Kagonesti advance could ever be so precise, so well ordered, and he briefly regretted the chaotic impulses of his own braves. Certainly those urges led to many acts of individual bravery, but at the same time they served to dissipate the concentrated force of the tribe's warriors as a whole. He remembered the attack against the bakali beside the Bluelake. If all the braves had shot their arrows together, the shocking effect of the initial volley would have been greatly magnified.

The horses broke into a canter, and the thundering of their hooves pounded audibly to Ashtaway on the mountainside-and, no doubt, throughout Sanction as well. Still, somehow, despite their speed, the knights maintained a precise line. Lances that had been upraised were now lowered, couched in the riders' flanks, silvery tips angling toward the pockets of ogres and other warriors who scrambled to form some kind of desperate, makeshift defense before their precious forges, barns, and arsenals.

Finally the attackers broke into a gallop, and here the slightest variations opened in their lines as the fastest horses pulled slightly ahead of the slowest. Even so, the knights and their chargers advanced as a wall, bristling with razor-sharp lances, fueled by a grim desire for victory.

The initial groups of defenders raised their weapons, some ogres displaying heroic courage in standing to meet the charge. Screams of pain rose from the field, mingled with the splintering sounds of spear shafts breaking and the shouted battle cries of the charging knights. Yet the horsemen swept past without pause, the straight line barely rippling over each pocket of defenders, and Ash was awed to see that not a single ogre remained standing once the rank had passed them. The knights and their horses, conversely, did not falter in the precise formation of their advance.

Other groups of defenders-ogres, bakali, and numerous human warriors-scrambled to raise weapons, to join ranks in the face of the thunderous onslaught. Unarmored, clapping helmets on their heads, breastplates hastily fastened over their cotton tunics, these ragged, frightened warriors emerged from the barracks and forges, urged toward the sounds of the charge by the profane exhortations of their captains. One by one the companies were pounded into the dirt by the inexorably advancing knights, until those that had not yet joined the battle turned and fled in a desperate attempt to avoid the crushing wave of death.

One or two horses fell, gutted or hamstrung by desperate ogres. Ash saw a knight climb to his feet beside a writhing mount. The man shook his head groggily, then drew a mighty sword. He cleaved a nearby ogre who showed signs of stirring, then looked around for further victims. When none showed, he raised the weapon and trotted, on foot, behind the rank of his fellows.

By the time Sir Kamford's charge swept fully across the vast plateau, the horsemen had smashed every defender who had dared to stand in their way. A few ogres still moved, but these were stunned by the shock of the attack. Ashtaway saw one of these stagger to his feet, look at the devastation around him, then collapse in apparent despair. Others tried to fight, but could offer only feeble resistance to a few dismounted knights who now charged forward in the wake of the horses. Most of the riders had discarded their lances, and now the riders chopped, slashed, and stabbed with cold efficiency.

The knights broke into smaller groups as the charge was segmented by the looming piles of coal and the blocklike structures of the forges, storage barns, and arsenals. Around the corrals, where horses bucked and snorted, fences went down under the hooves of chargers. More knights dismounted, smashing additional fences and prying open steel-barred gates. Like water flowing out of a breached reservoir, the horses streamed through the openings, while shouting knights, brandishing flaring torches, urged the frightened beasts into a raging stampede.

In Sanction itself, bright banners now flew from many staffs, while brassy horns brayed a constant summons to arms.

Ash saw troops streaming upward from the city, impelled by brash trumpets and hysterical cries of warning, but he could also see that these reinforcements would be too late. Flames spurted upward from one pile of wooden sticks-sticks that would never become the spear shafts that had been their destiny. Seizing the makeshift torches, the knights plunged through the camp, throwing flame at the stockpiles of coal.

Some of the men dismounted, smashing down the doors of forges and storehouses, charging inside with swords drawn. Soon smoke puffed from the broken doorways, and by the time the knights emerged to seek their next targets, orange blossoms of flame had begun to surge upward. A few more pockets of defenders tried to stand against the knights, but these were quickly ridden down and smashed.