Коллектив авторов - The Realms of the Elves

Sweeping his sword from its sheath, a captain near the head of the mercenaries avoided several arrows whistling past him. "Come on, you dogs!" he roared. Shouting defiance at the unseen archers, he led a score of the riders straight into the orchard.

Farther down the Chondathan column, large bands of cavalry swept out into the open grain fields on either side of the track and rode hard, circling wide around the covered ground.

"Watch the flanks!" Teriandyln warned. "They're trying to trap us here."

"I see them," Daried replied. But first they had to deal with the Chondathans storming the orchard. He pointed at the captain and riders thundering toward the elves' hiding places. "Take that one first!"

The mage nodded once. Deftly he retrieved a pinch of silvery dust from a pouch at his side. With a weaving motion of his hand he cast the dust into the air, then snapped out the words of a deadly spell and gestured at the approaching riders. Each mote of dust hanging in the air above his fingertips grew into a long needle of silver-white ice, and flew swifter than an arrow at the charging horsemen. The brilliant shards punched through steel breastplates and mail shirts like paper, only to explode an instant later in a white flash of deadly frost. The first impulsive rush of the Chondathan horsemen disintegrated in the lethal hail of frost-needles, man and beast alike pierced through or seared by cold so intense that flesh whitened and blood froze.

Glistening frost and dark blood blighted the apple trees. Daried winced, but he clapped the mage on the shoulder and ordered, "Now move! They may have mages of their own."

The two elves dashed back thirty yards, darting between the trees. Behind them a great blast of fire erupted in the orchard, just where they had been standing. A wave of sulfurous hot air flapped Daried's cloak around his shoulders and singed the hair on the back of his head. Daried went another ten yards or so, crouched behind a tree, and quickly surveyed the skirmish.

Arrows still hissed into the ranks of the Chondathans on the road, but they were far fewer. The elf archers moved between shots, trying to avoid being spotted. And Daried could see at a glance that the riders sweeping through the fields around the orchard were drawing the fire of the archers on his flanks. In a matter of moments he and his warriors would be trapped in the grove, and that would be all for them.

He clutched a silver medallion hanging above his heart, and whispered the words of a spell. The magic carried his words to all the elves in the grove, whether close by or a hundred yards away.

"Fall back now!" he commanded them. "To the second line, quickly!"

Together, the bladesinger and the wizard turned and sprinted toward the north, heading for the far side of the great orchard. Daried glimpsed more of his warriors, appearing and disappearing as they ran through the trees alongside them. He could hear the distant shouts of the humans behind him-it had not taken the Chondathans long at all to realize that their ambushers were in flight.

They know what they're doing, he decided. After meeting the wizard-warrior Sarthos two nights ago he hadn't really expected that the mercenary leaders would prove incompetent, but he'd still hoped to surprise them with his show of resistance.

They reached the edge of the orchard and broke into the open fields beyond. Daried lengthened his stride and ran at his best pace, all too aware of the lack of cover around him and his warriors. At a glance it seemed that most of his warriors were still with him-more than a dozen elves silently dashed across the field at his heels. But sweeping up from the west, only a couple of hundred yards away, threescore cavalrymen appeared, galloping furiously around the great orchard.

"Daried!" called Teriandyln.

"I see them!" he replied. "Keep on!"

Across the fields a long, low ridge covered by a dense thicket lay like a green wall across their path. Daried risked another glance over his shoulder, and altered his course to the right, veering away from the oncoming horsemen so that they would take just a little longer to overtake his warriors. The hot sun beat down on him, and the golden wheat weaving around his waist forced him to take high, plunging strides, wading more than running. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark thicket ahead and did not allow himself to slow down, even though sweat streamed down his face and the humid air seemed as thick as molasses in his lungs.

Behind him, he could hear the drumming hooves of the riders following. The shouts and cries of the mercenaries took on a savage, triumphal tone-and the elf warriors were still fifty yards short of the copse ahead.

A single horn-call sounded from somewhere in the woods ahead. Instantly Daried shouted to his warriors, "Down!" He threw himself into the tall grain and rolled, wheat stalks whipping his face and arms.

Over his head better than eighty bows thrummed at once. In the shelter of the trees ahead, just about every man of Glen who could pull a bow-and some of the women, as well-rose up and fired at the cavalrymen intent on riding down the withdrawing elves. They did not all shoot as well as elf warriors would have, but some did, and the rest certainly shot well enough. Horses screamed and reared, riders toppled from saddles, and others wheeled in panic beneath the withering fire. After three quick volleys the Chondathan mercenaries spun around and spurred away from the green thicket, leaving half their number dead or dying at the feet of the elves they'd intended to ride down.

Daried and his warriors leaped back to their feet, and trotted into the shelter of the thickets. The bladesinger found Nilsa waiting for him, alongside Earek, the tall innkeeper from the White Horse. More villagers and farmers stood nearby, grim looks of satisfaction on their faces. They were dressed in a ragged collection of armor ranging from none at all to old mail shirts or jerkins of rivet-studded leather, but all carried well-cared for bows, and many wore swords or axes at their belts, too.

There's more to these Dalesfolk than meets the eye, Daried decided. "That was well done, Nilsa. We would have been ridden down if you and your folk had not shot so well."

"I waited as long as I could before sounding the signal," Nilsa said. She shrugged awkwardly. "I didn't think they would be after you so quickly. It's a good thing you are fleet of foot, or you never would have gotten away from them."

"So?" Earek asked Daried. He served as the town's militia captain, since the death of Nilsa's father. The easygoing innkeeper became a different man in the field. His bland smile and easy laugh were gone, replaced by determination and worry. "How many do we face?"

Daried took a quick tally of the elf warriors who remained with him. Of the twenty he had had in the orchard, sixteen stood with him. Two were wounded, and Hycellyn, who had waited with the Dalesfolk, tended to them with her healing spells. There was a small chance that his missing warriors might still be hiding in the orchard, unable to rejoin him, but it was more likely that they had been caught before they could make their escape.

He sighed and turned back to his human allies. "We counted about two hundred on foot and the same number mounted. We shot many riders, but not enough to even the odds. I think you should consider abandoning your plan, and withdraw while you still can."

Earek watched the mercenary riders, hovering out of bowshot near the apple orchard. The riders milled about, glaring fiercely at the treeline in which the elves and the Mistledalefolk waited.

He shook his head. "You did your part, now we will do ours. They won't get across those fields without losing a lot of men, and they can see that already. Remember, they're mercenaries-they're paid to fight, not to die. If we can wound or kill a good number, the rest might decide it isn't worth it to press the attack."